


Heart That Matters More

by dancinginthecenteroftheworld



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Cats, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kidfic, M/M, Making it up As I Go Along, Multi, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Some angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, big messy Stark family, brief Addam/Brienne, everyone gets a family, everyone gets a friend, it's all going to be okay, matchmaker Sansa, seriously this is pure escapism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 108
Words: 166,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22516318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinginthecenteroftheworld/pseuds/dancinginthecenteroftheworld
Summary: What if Westeros were an adorably twee small town where nobody died and all problems were resolved in a happy way? If you read my November prompts and Advent fic, this is that universe. Will included re-written/expanded prompts in chronological order plus new content.Featuring vets Asha and Brienne, Sansa the matchmaker, dumbass Robb Stark, Rickon and Shireen's amazing chemistry, Dany the crazy lizard lady AND MORE. If you want realism and complexity, don't come here. If you want to pretend we're not all living through a dumpster fire of a timeline and see characters you love be happy with mild angst that gets resolved so everyone's happy again, read on.*As of chapter 58, all content is new and previously un-posted, if you were waiting for the prompt fills to finish.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Asha Greyjoy/Val, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Gilly/Samwell Tarly, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Ygritte, Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Shireen Baratheon/Rickon Stark, Talisa Maegyr/Robb Stark
Comments: 2590
Kudos: 939





	1. The Weather Outside is Frightful

**Author's Note:**

> This starts out with a lot of my November and Advent prompt fills and may seem familiar. You can skip them, although they've also been revised and expanded in most cases. And there's new content sprinkled in, cause I'm adding fluff like salt bae. Will also continue past the prompts into new content and includes racier stuff.
> 
> This IS a multi-ship fic, so you will have chapters where your preferred ship doesn't feature. You can skip them, though the character arcs and plot (what there is of it) weave throughout so you might miss some things. There is also a a lot of gen content. (Oprah Voice): You get a friend and YOU get a friend and EVERYBODY GETS A FRIEND!!
> 
> Also Westeros is American because I am American and not invested in doing a ton of research here. But let's pretend it's a magical America with universal healthcare and a living wage, because otherwise these characters wouldn't have these lives without stress and worry. Okay? Good. Glad we're all on the same page.
> 
> Betaread by the lovely ladybugbear2, who is taking on a terrifying backlog of writing.

Brienne Tarth knew, somewhat abstractly, that Westeros got long, cold winters when she decided to move. She’s well aware that she has never experienced a real winter, and only vaguely remembers the one year snow fell on Tarth. 

Still, it’s not the tropics on Tarth, Brienne is used to wearing sweaters and long pants, and she’s figured she’d be fine.

But it’s only October and her feet feel like they’ll never be warm again, and now the windshield on her car is covered in ice.

The delight Brienne had felt at seeing the frost sparkling on the grass as she drank her tea and looked out the window evaporates quickly. 

Brienne has been sitting in her car, heater running, trying her wipers every so often and wincing at the harsh scraping noise, when there’s a knock on her window. 

Brienne vaguely recognizes the woman as one of the other tenants from her floor. 

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” The woman looks like a fairy-tale princess, her long dark hair falling over a pretty pink coat, the blue hat and gloves and scarf she’s wearing matching her boots. 

She doesn’t look like she’s cold at all, while Brienne is shivering in her father’s old peacoat and one of her warmest sweaters and jeans. 

“Yes, from Tarth,” Brienne answers.

“You need an ice scraper.” The woman holds up her hand. “One second.”

She comes back with a long-handled tool and begins chipping away at Brienne’s windshield with surprising strength. The woman, Brienne learns as she takes the scraper and uses her greater height for more reach, is Shireen Baratheon and she teaches at the local school. 

“You need better gloves,” Shireen says, looking at Brienne’s worn fingerless mitts. “And hats and a lined coat. This is nothing for us.”

Brienne groans before she can stop herself. Shireen gives a little laugh, her hair falling back. Brienne catches a hint of scarring on one side of her face, somewhat at odds with the rest of Shireen’s delicate appearance. 

By the time she’s cleared her car, Brienne has a shopping list for warm clothing, things like a snow shovel even though the landlord is supposed to clear the lot (“He doesn’t,” Shireen sighs, and then uses a word that’s very inappropriate for a schoolteacher, to describe Baelish), and a new appreciation for fleece-lined anything and thermal underwear. 

Shireen gives her a wave and insists they must get together for coffee sometime, claiming it’s nice to have a normal neighbor. 

Brienne doesn’t really expect she’ll follow through. 

But Brienne does go shopping on Saturday, shoving her distaste for the chore back and clutching Shireen’s list. 

If nothing else, it will give her a chance to explore the town she’s moved to. It’s been so busy since her arrival that all she’s seen is the vet’s office, the animal shelter, and her father’s new restaurant. 

Briene’s first stop is the hardware store next door to her father’s place. It’s a small store, crammed with shelves almost overflowing with supplies. Brienne is staring at a wall of shovels when a tall, sturdy woman with a braid of honey-blonde hair that reaches her waist greets her.

“Need a hand?”

Her name is Val, Brienne learns, and she owns the store. Val is happy to help Brienne load up on things she’ll need — snow shovel, backup kerosene heater, emergency kits for home and car, snow scraper and tire chains — while offering advice about handling the cold.

“Thanks,” Brienne says. “I think I might be in a little over my head.”

Val’s eyes sweep Brienne up and down. 

“You’re a sturdy one,” Val says. “You’ll adapt just fine.”

Brienne thinks it’s a compliment, although she’s not entirely sure. 

To Brienne’s surprise, there’s a knock on her door one evening after she gets home from work. Shireen is at the door, a tupperware container clutched in her hands. It’s late enough that Brienne has changed into flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt, but Shireen looks picture-perfect in a wrap dress printed with roses and a fluffy pink cardigan. 

“I should have come earlier,” Shireen says. “But I brought you a house-warming gift.”

Shireen hands over the container, which turns out to be filled with a batch of butterscotch blondies, and when Brienne lets her in, crouches down on the floor to greet the cats, delighted.

Evenfall darts off to the bedroom, nothing but a fluffy tail vanishing down the hall, but Honor and Goldenhand the Just swarm Shireen for pets. Blue just blinks lazily from the back of the sofa, but Glory sees his chance and quickly moves to lounge around on the warm spot left when Brienne got up.

Brienne tries not to fumble too badly at being a hostess, but Shireen doesn’t seem offended by the lack of refreshments. Shireen, it turns out, has lived in Westeros her entire life and knows a lot about the town and all the people in it. 

Brienne’s head is spinning by the time Shireen yawns into her mug of chamomile and excuses herself, and she’s taken aback when the smaller woman heads off with a hug instead of handshake. 

It’s a few weeks (and several coffee visits, at Brienne’s place or Shireen’s very pink and meticulously furnished studio apartment) before Brienne musters the energy to tackle the remainder of the winter list. She’s spurred into action by the first snow, an inch or so of white coating the ground when she wakes up. 

Brienne’s surprised to see her head volunteer from the animal shelter working the floor at Cregan’s department store.

“My parents’ store,” Sansa Stark explains, obligingly leading Brienne to the men’s section and helping her find most of the things on Shireen’s list. Fleece-lined jeans, heavier sweaters, thermal base layers and boots. 

Sansa is gleeful about the entire thing, seemingly oblivious to Brienne’s lack of excitement. Continually trying to talk Brienne into clothes in shades other than black and grey.

Brienne accepts some of the blue and green sweaters Sansa unearths from the men’s department, but draws the line at the heavy cabled sweater in cream-colored wool.

It’s beautiful, but working with animals all day means it would be ruined before Brienne could wear it twice.

Brienne tamps down on the brief feeling of regret that she’s stuck with clunky, brown boots instead of something cute. Not that she’d wear powder-blue, fur-topped ones like Shireen, but it would be nice to have something pretty and feminine that fit her. But with size 13 feet, she’s stuck shopping in the men’s department.

That must be why she allows Sansa to coax her into the women’s department, even though Brienne is certain she’ll be disappointed once again. Nothing will fit, too short, too narrow, cut for women with breasts and hips Brienne lacks.

“We do alterations, and we carry plenty of tall sizes,” Sansa explains. She’s not exactly petite herself, slim, but definitely taller than average.

Still not as tall as Brienne, however, which means there’s at least some hope of things fitting. 

Sansa seems determined, digging through racks with enthusiasm. 

“Don’t you want something nice?” Sansa asks, piling dresses over her arm as Brienne frowns. “I know your job needs practical clothes, but we do have the town holiday party coming up.”

“I don’t wear dresses,” Brienen says automatically. “I can’t.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow.

Brienne gestures to her shoulders with a sigh. She doesn’t know if women like Sansa genuinely don’t understand how large Brienne is or if they’re just mean enough to want to see how grotesque Brienne looks in clothes made for dainty women. 

Brienne doesn’t _think_ Sansa would be that cruel. She’s always been kind when they’ve worked together, and Asha has nothing but good things to say about the woman who keeps the volunteers for the shelter in line. And Asha is one of the few women who has never had anything to say about Brienne’s appearance, aside from some startingly lewd propositions when they’d met as roommates. Thankfully, those were dropped once Brienne made it clear she was very heterosexual.

“Nonsense,” Sansa says briskly. “You just need the right dress.”

The right dress, if it exists, is not at Cregan’s, though Sansa tries to talk Brienne into a few on. Brienne eventually finds herself buying a blue jumpsuit that miraculously does fit, or almost. It even has a belt that ties to give her an illusion of a waist. Sansa assures Brienne the store can let out the hem and fix the inch of ankle showing. Brienne will also need to wear something underneath (the neckline plunges too low) if she wears it out in public, no matter what Sansa says.

Brienne feels entirely wrung out when they’re done, but there’s something kind of nice about having an article of clothing so decidedly feminine, even if Brienne will never wear it. And Sansa looks so pleased when Brienne says she’ll pick up the jumpsuit later. 

It’s not like Brienne is going to go to the holiday party, and it’s not like anyone is going to care, but maybe it’s a good step toward a new start. That’s what Brienne had hoped for when she decided to move, it’s what her father has been encouraging as well. Between Asha, Sansa, and Shireen, Brienne has already had more conversations than she would have had in months back in Tarth. 

Maybe Westeros really will be a place to get at least some of the things Brienne has tried so hard not to dream about. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I separated Tarth from Westeros because frankly I did not think about larger geography before starting. Just roll with it. 
> 
> Westeros is somewhere very north, where there is lots of snow staring early in the year. Landlocked but not too terribly far from the ocean.


	2. No One Else Can Feel It For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime doesn't think he's prepared for this.

Jaime Lannister likes to think of himself as a reasonably prepared person. Sure, he’s lived the life of a spoiled rich kid, but he’s been an independent adult for some time and let’s face it, he’s got enough money to throw at problems if that’s all he can figure out to do.

What Jaime isn’t prepared for, is being handed custody of his niece and youngest nephew following the death of his brother-in-law and the arrest and imprisonment of his sister and oldest nephew. Judge Tully had practically laughed the request for bail out of court and an exhausted social worker had handed him a couple of hastily packed suitcases and two children that would be his for the foreseeable future.

And probably beyond. Jaime’s not harboring any illusions about his sister’s innocence.

It had been easy enough to bury himself in the practicalities of it all at first. Working his way through the list of requirements to be given custody, taking days off work and trying to figure out things like where they kids go to school and how to keep his father from interfering as much as possible. But then he’s face to face with the reality of the situation, two unimpressed children in his hastily re-organized apartment, Jaime staring helplessly at them.

When Jaime frantically tries to reach back into his memories and find something kid-friendly and comforting, it’s depressingly difficult. Being confronted with two unhappy children – Myrcella is scowling, arms crossed, while Tommen stares past Jaime with an alarmingly distant expression – doesn’t make it any easier.

They’ve spent the last few days in the care of Ned and Catelyn Stark, of all people, who are apparently licensed foster parents, while Jaime scrambled to get his apartment and life in sufficient order to be given custody.

But now they’re here, in Jaime’s apartment, which now holds many more smoke detectors and several new, child-friendly, furnishings in what used to be his guest bedroom and office, and Jaime is at a loss of what he can do to make this easier. 

Finally, Jaime remembers his mother making hot chocolate on cold days. It’s hazy, but he recalls the sweet chocolate on his tongue, the mug warming his hands, watching closely with Cersei while his mother shooed the cook away and stood in front of the stove stirring and humming softly.

Jaime can’t have been more than five or six, if his mother was still alive. Cersei would have still been sweet then, a little girl who loved climbing the jungle gym and switching clothes with Jaime to see how long it would take anyone to notice. When Joanna would make hot chocolate, Jaime thinks it would be a treat, maybe if one of them was sick or it was bad weather. He vaguely recalls curling up under a blanket to drink it, of warmth and softness and the gentle floral smell of his mother’s perfume.

Jaime doesn’t have hot chocolate or know how to make it, so he bundles both children up and heads towards Wildling Brews.

Myrcella mutters “this is stupid” under her breath and Tommen continues to say nothing. So far, Jaime’s heard him say three words in eight hours, and all of those were to a stray cat outside Jaime’s building. 

The surly redhead working the counter raises an eyebrow when she sees them, but refrains from her usual sarcasm. Jaime isn’t sure if that’s because he looks as bad as he feels or because she’s already heard the gossip about what went down at the Baratheons. 

It’s very disconcerting to walk in without her tossing a snarky comment Jaime’s way. He’s used to his coffee coming with a side of insults.

Tommen curls into one of the chairs, head down, looking at his knees. Myrcella flops dramatically into hers, heaving a sigh as if being taken for hot chocolate is the highest form of punishment. 

Jaime remembers Cersei being exceptionally difficult during her teenage years (not that she was easy any other years), but Myrcella is only 12. Surely she hasn’t yet entered that stage of mood swings and emotional upheaval. 

“I know this rough,” Jaime starts. 

“No shit,” Myrcella mutters.

“Language,” Jaime says mildly, and Myrcella rolls her eyes. 

The social worker had warned Jaime this would be difficult. 

“I just want you to know, I want to make you as comfortable as you can be, under the circumstances,” Jaime says. It feels like a very sterilized and polite way to say I want you to be comfortable while your mother and brother are locked up for probably murdering your father. While you live with an uncle your mother hardly allowed you to spend time with, because it might interfere with her plans to mold you into what she wanted.

“Do you even know how to raise kids?” Myrcella spits out, just as the redhead comes over with a tray. 

“Don’t sass your uncle like that,” the redhead says, setting mugs down. She’s wearing ripped jeans and a sweatshirt that says “I’m silently judging you” on the front.

She must have heard, then. Gossip travels fast in Westeros. 

“Who are you?” Myrcella asks. She screws her face up in an expression of distaste.

“Ygritte,” the redhead says, her matter-of-fact tone not changing. “And if I talked like that, _my_ uncle would have had me outside chopping wood until I learned my lesson.” 

Myrcella scowls, but she takes her mug while Ygritte turns to Tommen. 

“Made yours special, love,” she says to him, voice much softer. “Extra chocolate and cinnamon.”

“Why are you being nice?” Myrcella is not cowed at all. “Do you want to sleep with my uncle?”

Jaime’s eyes widen in shock, but Ygritte just barks out a laugh. 

“Nah, too much of a fancy, pretty boy for me,” she says, giving Jaime an unfairly dismissive look. He bristles despite himself. Ygritte turns back to Myrcella with a stern look. “I might’ve been through some things. Kids like us gotta stick together.” 

Myrcella rolls her eyes. “Things like what?”

“If you decide to shape up, maybe I’ll tell you,” Ygritte says. “Your uncle’s a bit of a fancy jerk but he’s not the one who caused all of this, and he is the one who’s stepping up to take care of you.” 

With that she sashays off back to the counter, leaving Jaime blinking and wondering what just happened. He’s never exchanged any words with Ygritte before past his drink order and her generally disparaging observations about his person. 

Myrcella doesn’t seem to consider the offer, and she evades Jaime’s attempts to get to know her better with short, sullen answers. Tommen doesn’t respond either, just sips his hot chocolate with a sad expression somehow made worse by the whipped cream that gets stuck on his lip. 

When Jaime finally take a sip of his drink, he’s hit with the unmistakable bite of alcohol and he whips his head around stare at the counter. Ygritte gives him a shrug and a friendly wink. 

Jaime manages about forty-five minutes before he gives into the awkwardness and gathers everyone to head back home. Tommen stops on the street to pet a dog, and then again to try and pet a cat lying under a bush.

“I won’t hurt you,” Tommen whispers to the cat, so soft Jaime can hardly hear it. Tommen sounds like he’s about to cry. The cat scurries backwards and flees as soon as it can stand fully.

Tommen doesn’t say anything to Jaime the rest of the way home. Once there, Tommen retreats to his bedroom with a blanket and book, while Myrcella dramatically slams her door. Shortly after, Jaime hears the sound of computer games drifting out of her room. 

Jaime sits on the sofa, head in his hands. There’s nobody else who can take these kids – Tyrion is even less prepared than Jaime is, and nobody wants to give Tywin the chance to fuck up another generation. 

But Jaime has no idea how he’s going to do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a no-incest 'verse. Jaime really is uncle, and he had a weirdly co-dependent relationship with Cersei for some time but not as toxic or devastating.


	3. Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha does not expect her day to go this way.

Asha Greyjoy pulls up to the cabin far later than she expects to, peering through the windshield at the large front porch.

Cabin is really a misnomer, it’s much bigger and nicer than Asha expects to find. Not huge, but definitely multiple rooms, and there’s a huge array of solar panels on the roof. And it looks like a real home, not like some of the half-assed, amateur construction Asha has seen when people decide they want to get back to nature.

It’s also a lot farther up the mountain. 

Remote and inconvenient though it may be, however, it’s still not the lizards, and Asha is completely happy with the trade she’d made with Brienne. 

By the time Asha has collected her bag from the bed of the truck, the cabin door has been flung open and a strikingly tall, blond woman is on the porch, a large collie sitting by her side.

Asha tries not to swallow her tongue. 

She recognizes Val Freeman, of course. Val owns the hardware store. When she’s at the store, Asha remembers seeing Val in spotless white and grey, hair swept up in elaborate braids as she goes about town. Asha’s seen her brilliantly tear down a man who questioned her ability to run the store. Despite that, Asha hasn’t given Val an inordinate amount of thought. Except for now, since apparently her brain has decided it isn’t going to process language for a while.

Which is ridiculous because Asha is good with women. She has no problem finding women eager to come to her bed. Asha charms the pants off women, often literally. Asha has no problem speaking to beautiful women.

Except, apparently, when she does.

But now Val is standing on the porch, wrapped in faded red flannel and blue jeans, her long braid loose and messy... Asha abruptly realizes she’s been staring when a small smirk appears on Val’s face. 

“The goats are out back,” Val says, once Asha’s pulled herself together, collected her bag and started making her way from the muddy drive to the porch.

“What’s the trouble?” Asha asks, grateful for work to focus on.

“Nothing,” Val says. “But it’s getting time to breed them, and I want to get their bloodwork done first.” 

The collie pads along behind them as Val leads the way. They pass what Asha guesses is a garden when it’s not winter, a couple of fairly large greenhouses and hoophouses, a row of beehives and a large chicken coop. There’s also a small cleared area, not too far from the house, where there’s a small concrete foundation and the skeleton of a building going up. Asha isn’t sure what it could be, given the size. 

Asha is pleased to see Val has already corralled her small herd and set up a platform and headgate that’s easy to access. The four does are well-socialized and calm as Val scoops them out of the pen and onto the platform so Asha can draw blood and do a brief wellness check.

While they work, Asha learns that Val handles vaccines and parasite control on her own, keeps a scrupulously clean barn, uses stud services rather than keep a buck, and is hoping to grow her herd more so she can supply milk to a cousin interested in attempting to sell products made with goat milk. 

Asha also learns that Val has a soothing, deep voice that sends a jolt of arousal through Asha, even when Val is talking about things as utterly non-sexy as affordable vaccine suppliers. 

Asha chats amiably about goat management, but she finds herself unable to work in an offer to get coffee or food or to have dirty, filthy sex up against the nearest wall. It’s very unlike her. Asha once turned an appointment with a pest control company into a few weeks long, very kinky, very enjoyable affair. 

Yet here she is, mentally trying to find reasons to come back up to this incredibly isolated cabin. 

She needs to get a grip.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” Asha finally says, when she’s thrown her bag in the truck and is loitering outside. What the fuck? That’s a terrible pickup line.

Val arches her brows. “Isn’t there some kind of professional conflict of interest with hitting on patients?”

“My patients are the animals, so yes. Also quite a few laws,” Asha says. “But owners are fair game.” 

“How do you know I’m not straight?” There’s a small smile playing around Val’s lips, like she’s enjoying this.

“Every woman is straight until she isn’t.” 

“Converted a few, have you?” Val definitely looks amused now.

“Three more and I qualify for the free toaster.” Asha gives her a grin. “I’m very good.” 

“And very confident about it,” Val says. “People who think they’re that good in bed usually aren’t.”

“Well, I’m more than happy to prove you wrong. And I’m good out of bed too,” Asha says and what the ever-loving fuck is she doing, that sounds a lot like asking for a _date_ date, not a fuck date. 

The way Val’s gaze sweeps over Asha makes her feel uncomfortably like she’s being evaluated. This is really not usually how this goes. 

“Goat care, obviously,” Val says.

“One of my many services. I can also provide boat captaining, deep sea fishing, drunk wrangling and the occasional kitchen table tattoo.” 

“Aren’t we landlocked?” 

“I’m a Greyjoy. The sea is in our blood,” Asha says. “Even if it’s four hours away.” 

“Funny, I thought it was rum in your blood,” Val shoots back. 

“Well, that too.” Asha considers. “Less in mine than the rest of them.”

“I was wondering how a Greyjoy ended up in a respectable job.” Val is not quite as harsh as some, but Asha is fully aware of the reputation her family has. 

“I’m the black sheep.” Asha leans against the car door. “I have zero intention of wasting my entire life drunk and passed out on a sidewalk. Though I am still great at parties.”

“And boats, apparently.” 

“And boats.”

“What about hammers?” Val asks, somewhat abruptly. Asha blinks.

“I almost destroyed my brother’s fingers with one when we were kids.” Theon still hasn’t entirely let go of that one . 

“I’d appreciate if you don’t do that to me,” Val says. “Saturday. Ten am. We’ll skip the tattoos but I wouldn’t say no to some halibut.”

Someday, Asha is sure, she’s going to figure out exactly what just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, massive thanks to ladybugbear2 who is working her way through my massive pile of chapters!


	4. If It Makes You Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is not expecting a cobra, or a potential friend.

Brienne rarely makes house calls, since Asha usually handles their livestock clients. But she does enjoy getting an opportunity to see how her patient’s owners take care of them. Especially when it’s a good, standard, home visit. 

Sadly, most of the time Brienne makes the trip to client’s homes it is to ease an animal out of it’s suffering. Brienne is always glad to be able to do that in a way that’s most comforting to a pet and owner but it’s the worst part of her job. 

Brienne also enjoys working with exotics. It’s not something there’s a huge call for, which is why she focused on general practice in vet school, but she tries to keep her skills up to date. So she was delighted to take the call from a woman looking for someone who could treat reptiles, while Asha shuddered and mumbled about crazy people.

Brienne initially expects to find a small turtle, maybe, or a corn snake nestled in a 20 gallon aquarium. (They really need to find a permanent receptionist, Theon is terrible at getting the details when Asha twists his ear and has him fill in.) When Brienne pulls up to a very large house, what could be described as a mansion, even, she mentally adjusts and imagines something like maybe a larger python. 

Daenerys Targaryen answers the door, smiling up at Brienne. She’s certainly a lot prettier than most of the reptile owners Brienne has met. The majority of whom tend to be reclusive sorts who wear an awful lot of safari gear for not being anywhere near a safari. Daenerys is petite and cheerful in stylish winter clothes, her platinum hair done in elaborate braids. 

If Daenerys is taken aback by Brienne’s size or appearance, it doesn’t show on her face. She just smiles as she takes Brienne’s coat and insists on having Brienne call her Dany.

“The habitats are back here,” Daenerys says. “I mostly want you to look at the slider, but it wouldn’t hurt to give you the tour.”

Brienne’s jaw about hits the floor. 

The room they walk into is amazing. Roughly two-thirds of the very large room is taken up by a habitat for a leopard tortoise, who is happily munching on some greens and pumpkin. The room has clearly been renovated, and the enclosure has plenty of dirt, several hide boxes, and a variety of plants. It’s also plenty large for the tortoise, who seems to be one of the giant varieties of which Brienne has only seen in books.

There are other tanks too, all well over 100 gallon size, with exquisitely cared for habitats. Brienne sees the red-eared slider, which has nice, clear, water and lots of platforms for the turtle to surface on. There’s also a large tank with geckos and another with skinks. 

“This is amazing,” she can’t help saying to Daenerys.

The climate control is good too. Brienne has to take off her flannel and roll up the sleeves on her shirt, and she can also see the individual tanks have ways to adjust the temperature. 

“I’m planning to move the slider so he can brumate,” Daenerys says. “I know they don’t necessarily need it, but I try to replicate the natural habitat. I wanted to have you check him out first.”

“Sure,” Brienne says, and can’t help adding. “Can I see the leopard before I go?”

Daenerys laughs. She is, of course, one of those women who has laughter that sounds like bells chiming. 

“Of course,” she says. “And I’ll show you the rest of them.”

The _rest_ of them? 

The slider is fine, though reluctant to poke his head out of his shell when Brienne needs him to, which is not terribly surprising. Brienne chats with Daenerys as she works, expressing admiration for the habitats and the effort Daenerys goes through with pets that so many people consider gross or disposable. She also learns Daenerys is opening up a pet store in town so people won’t have to drive to the next largest city, and hopes to talk with Brienne and Asha about their recommendations for stocking it 

“Reptiles and fish,” Daenerys says, “I can do. Cats and dogs are a mystery.” 

Brienne finishes up and deposits the slider back in his water (she wonders how Daenerys is planning to move the tank – Brienne is stronger than most women and it would take roughly three of her to handle something that large) and takes some time with the leopard tortoise. 

“A rescue,” Daenerys says, and Brienne hums her approval. “A professor got him when studying abroad and brought him back, oh, a few decades ago. Didn’t know they lived so long and his family wanted nothing to do with caring for him when the guy died.”

When Brienne stands up, Daenerys flashes her a brilliant grin. 

“Now for the real fun,” she says. 

If the first room is impressive, the second is out of this world. The first thing that catches Brienne’s eye is the giant enclosure for several green iguanas. It might actually have been an entire room of it’s own at one point, and there are plenty of plants and vines for the animals to explore. The high ceilings of the house are ideal, giving the lizards horizontal space too.

Brienne is so distracted, she almost doesn’t notice the array of other tanks and then she’s choking in surprise.

“Is that a _cobra_?” Brienne sputters. 

“Perfectly legal,” Daenerys says, raising her hands. “I have all the permits and I’m a herpetologist. He can’t be released back into the wild, neither can the Mexican bearded so that’s why I have them.”

“If you’re a herpetologist, then why call me?” Brienne can’t help asking.

“I like getting a second opinion,” Daenerys says with a shrug. “Plus, I’m really more knowledgeable about snakes and lizards, I haven’t dealt much with turtles in years.” 

“And why are you opening a pet store?” Brienne follows up, taking a closer look at the tanks. In addition to the two venomous creatures, there are several Savannah monitors, a Burmese python, a king snake, and a white corn snake. 

“Because academia is a curse on humanity and will kill your soul,” Daenerys says frankly. “I’d rather help people learn to take care of their pets properly.” 

Daenerys tells her about the reptiles, taking time to show Brienne around the cages and seeming happy to chat. Brienne holds the corn snake, who seems to be the friendliest, and lets him slither over her, little tongue flicking out over her skin in greeting. She learns that the cobra is a rescue from a snake charmer who kept his snakes in terrible condition and the Mexican bearded was found with poachers. Both were far from their native lands and nobody was willing to try transporting them. Daenerys had been the only one in her department that would take them, not having children or other types of pets that would make keeping a venomous animal too dangerous. 

“But these are my babies,” Daenerys says, standing in front of the green iguana cage. “Drogon, Viseron, and Rhaegal. My first lizards, I got them when I had just started college and didn’t know what to study.” 

“They’re lovely,” Brienne says. Daenerys beams.

After Brienne finishes scrubbing and sanitizing her hands and arms, and anywhere else the corn snake managed to slither, Dany asks her for a cup of tea and they discuss getting together to talk about the pet store. Brienne learns that Dany has just returned to Westeros for the first time since childhood, and it’s nice to meet someone else who hasn’t spent their entire life in the town. 

Brienne leaves with Dany’s number and an agreement to set up a time to talk about her store. Brienne is halfway through updating Asha about it, back at the office, when she notices her business partner is staring distantly off into space.

“I think I have a date,” Asha says, when Brienne finally snaps her fingers in front of Asha’s face and asks what’s wrong.

“You have a lot of dates?” Brienne is aware, sometimes far too aware, of Asha’s active sex life. For a straight woman, she now has a surprisingly vast amount of information on lesbian sex practices. Sometimes with unexpected visual demonstrations.

“No. I have a lot of sex,” Asha says. “I think this is date. Like. An actual one. Where we’ll wear clothes and everything.”

“That’s good, isn't it?”

“It’s not.” Asha looks at Brienne. “I avoid dates for a reason. Dates lead to more dates and that leads to people wanting things like commitment and do you have any idea how boring that is?”

“No,” Brienne says.

“It’s boring,” Asha says. “And now I have one.”

Asha resumes staring off into space. Brienne decides the conversation can wait until tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ladybugbear2 for her beta work! 
> 
> All reptile info is from Google, please don't keep venomous pets even if your state allows it.


	5. Do You Fall In Love Too Easily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa can't resist a new yarn store, or a charming brunette offering lemon bars.

The new shop is so adorable Sansa stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk. It's freezing cold outside, she can feel the tip of her nose going numb where it peeks out over the fluffy scarf she's wrapped around her neck and chin, and that just makes everything look even cozier. 

Through the windows she can see shelves and shelves of brightly colored, well-ordered yarn and in the center, a counter with tins of tea in tidy rows, while other shelves hold pretty teapots and cups and saucers. A few comfy-looking chairs and some adorable painted tables are clustered in front of the windows.

Sansa is supposed to be meeting her family for dinner, she's supposed to go over early but there's no way she’s NOT going into this shop. The yarn is calling her.

The door opens with a tinkle of bells and a rush of blessedly warm air. Sansa takes her time making her way to the back counter, stopping to admire the colors and fondle some of the yarn. There's an exquisitely soft charcoal grey cashmere that would make a perfect hat for her dad and some sturdy-looking burgundy that would look lovely in a sweater for Rickon. Though Sansa isn’t terribly optimistic at the idea of getting Rickon to actually wear a sweater, but maybe if she makes it as a hoodie she can talk him into it.

Sansa also spends a long time sorting through some vibrant self-striping sock yarn, wishing she could afford to buy one in every color. Even if there isn’t much to do with that kind of fingering weight other than socks, it pools strangely in a shawl or hat. She does pick up a skein in a lovely mix of green and red and brown that reminds her of Weirwoods to make a pair of socks for Bran's expanding crazy sock collection.

By the time she reaches the counter, Sansa is warm enough to loosen her scarf and shove her mittens in her coat pocket. It’s really time for her to be leaving, but it wouldn't hurt to take a look at the tea selection.

There's a petite brunette working the counter, her back to Sansa. She’s wearing a darling cropped cardigan over a slinky pencil skirt that makes Sansa envious. She'd love to have the kind of body that makes a skirt like that look so good.

Sansa clears her throat, and when the brunette turns around, Sansa feels her brain white out for a second. 

Part of the girl's head is shaved, her eyes bright and challenging, and her lips twisted in a slight smirk and Sansa can feel her heart skip a beat. 

"Hi," the girl says, and Sansa tries to form sort of words as a response.

It comes out more like a whimper. Sansa blushes, looking over to a wall of notions and trying to get her brain back online.

"I haven't seen this shop before," Sansa says, carefully avoiding looking directly at the beautiful woman in front of her. It makes it easier to speak. "You must be new."

"Yes, it's my brother's actually. We're still building up our tea selection, but I can recommend something from what we have -- do you prefer black or green? We have a lovely earl grey, I was just putting a pot on for myself if you'd like to try. It's fantastic with our lemon bars."

Sansa means to turn back and say she can't stay, but she'll take a lemon bar to go, only she looks over and the woman is smiling, dimples creasing her cheeks.

Dimples, lemon bars, and an undercut. It's like someone made a list of all Sansa's weaknesses and put them together in a delightful package.

"That sounds great," she finds herself saying. "I love lemon bars."

She tries not to stare as the brunette carefully loads a tray with the tea and treats, or at the way her hips sway as she leads Sansa to the tables at the front.

"I'm Margaery," the woman says as they sit down, flashing another smile Sansa's way. "I do hope you'll stay a while."

Sansa completely misses family dinner, which she’s going to have to apologize for, but it’s worth it to stay and chat with Margaery, who is happy to share her tea.

Sansa lasts a week before she goes in again. Well, technically she goes in after a few days but Margaery isn’t there and the counter is being manned by an angelic-looking man with blond curls who Sansa assumes is Margaery’s brother. So it doesn’t count.

Sansa gets another pot of earl grey and a lemon bar, plus the charcoal yarn so she can start casting on for her dad’s hat. She’s getting close to the end of Christmas knitting, down to the difficult ones like her dad (who will love anything Sansa makes but she wants him to like it as well) and Aunt Lysa and her grandfather. Aunt Lysa probably won’t like anything that’s homemade but Sansa is determined to show her that handknits can be better than store bought. 

A few customers come in, but Margaery plates up a pear tart and spends most of the evening visiting with Sansa. 

They were at school together, but somehow didn’t know each other then. Or at least not in high school, Sansa’s memories of elementary school, which would have been much smaller, are a bit fuzzy. 

Margaery isn’t much of a knitter, but she does like to design and sew clothes, and is trying to get some of her things placed somewhere for sale. She’s also a former gymnast and remembers Arya from soccer. 

That shocks Sansa, because she can’t imagine Margaery having anything in common with her wild, tomboy, little sister. 

It also turns out that both Sansa and Margaery are fans of Project Runway. They have very different opinions about the show, though, because Sansa loves the challenges involving strange materials or uses, while Margaery hates them. 

“I mean, if you’re a designer, you’re not ever going to make a dress out of things from the grocery store,” Margaery argues. 

“But it’s a test of creativity,” Sansa counters. 

“Useless creativity,” Margeary says. “I’d rather see them have to design for different body types or unusual circumstances. Things you might actually have to do.”

“How many of those can they come up with though?” It’s a point Sansa almost regrets making, because it sends Margaery on a very long tangent, listing different things which require specific clothing be designed. Sansa can’t really keep track of them all, but Margaery’s whole face lights up as she talks and she gestures wildly with her hands. Sansa desperately wants to pull the teacup out of Margaery’s hands and kiss her until they’re both breathless.

But Sansa doesn’t know if Margaery is gay and she’s not sure of a delicate, non-embarrasing way to ask.

It doesn’t become any clearer in future visits, though Sansa does wind up acquiring more yarn than is strictly reasonable.

Most of it is sock yarn, though, so it doesn’t count as stash. Obviously.

Sansa and Margaery continue to debate Project Runway, even going back and streaming old episodes to try to argue their point, as well as the costumes in Downton Abbey and the merits of using actual historic garments in movies and TV. 

Margaery is also an excellent sounding board for Sansa’s projects, cooing over the yarn choices and browsing through Ravelry with her.

She also tries to talk Sansa down from her less reasonable impulses, but even a beautiful woman can only do so much. Sansa still buys enough lace weight yarn for a sweater. 

Margaery also helps Sansa find a yarn that even Aunt Lysa will probably like, a cashmere silk blend in deep blue that’s not quite navy, but isn’t bright either. It has just the right amount of springiness to make a good hat, so Sansa buys it even though the price makes her wince and mentally start re-organizing her budget. 

Margaery also uses her unofficial employee discount and sells it to Sansa at cost, which makes the purchase easier to stomach. 

Sansa definitely has what is becoming an absurdly large crush, and she really needs to do something about it, if only for the sake of her wallet. She’s acting like a teenager, doodling their initials and daydreaming about pretty white dresses. And about some decidedly more adult things, like the way Margaery’s fitted skirts show off an ass Sansa would like to bite into and what it might be like to bury her face in Margaery’s often visible cleavage. 

But first Sansa has to figure out if Margaery even likes girls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladybugbear2 is the reason there are far fewer errors in these! Thanks for the amazing beta work.
> 
> Also, sock yarn never counts as stash. It is known.


	6. Counting On A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sam find a new shop as they patrol downtown.

The nice thing about being a police officer in Westeros is that it’s not too busy, not too stressful, not too dangerous. The bad thing about being a police officer in Westeros is that sometimes it’s incredibly boring. 

Jon Snow and Sam Tarly have patrolled the downtown area several times. They’ve told off a handful of kids loitering outside Tyrell’s and convinced them to relocate farther down by Stolen Ink, because it’s not open yet and Davos wouldn’t care anyway. They’ve done a wellness check on Mance Rayder’s elderly neighbor, who turned out to be absolutely fine and not answering her phone because she was too busy watching her stories, not lying on the ground with a broken hip as Mance feared. Jon hopes they’ll be off shift by the time Euron Greyjoy starts a fight at whatever establishment he decides to lurk at tonight. They’ll definitely be off by the time someone has to drag Greyjoy out of the bar and deposit him back home where he’s not a danger to others. 

But there’s still plenty of time to kill. Jon is dreaming of things he could be doing, wondering what Aunt Cat is cooking for dinner. Everyone’s grown and mostly out of the house, but there’s still dinner on the table each night for whoever shows up. Jon’s aunt is amazing at managing to stretch whatever she’s making to accommodate people. That, or she and Ned just eat a lot of leftovers. Jon never seems to get the amount of food right when cooking for himself. He’s either left starving after or eating the same thing for a week.

Sam slows down and Jon glares at him. 

“We can’t rest,” he says again. “That’s when we get cold.”

Sam’s newer to the force, and he hasn’t quite figured out that resting, while appealing, is a terrible idea from October until sometime in March. Unless you really like frostbite.

Jon does not really like frostbite.

“This is new, isn’t it?” Sam is looking at a storefront. Jon blinks. 

“Aye,” he says, taking in the bakery. 

Seven Sisters Sweets and Savories, the sign says. It looks like the kind of place Sansa would adore, because there’s nothing cute his cousin won’t latch onto like a koala. There are cheerful striped curtains in the window where several tables are set up with those metal chairs with the curly backs. It’s all blue and yellow and the centerpiece is a big case full of breads and pastries. 

Jon’s surprised Sansa hasn’t mentioned it yet, though that probably has more to do with her fascination with the new yarn and tea shop, and her incredibly poorly disguised crush on the store’s employee than anything else. 

Aunt Cat just thinks she really likes yarn. 

It’s a little mean, but Jon finds it privately hilarious that all of Aunt Cat’s carefully planned, supportive ally talk and efforts have been directed at the entirely wrong children. Arya is as straight as they come, if she ever finds a man whose dick she doesn’t want to cut off for being an asshole, and Bran is secretly pining over his best friend’s sister, not the best friend like Aunt Cat thinks.

Meanwhile Sansa is mooning over half the pretty girls in town and Robb had a two or three year affair with his best friend right under Uncle Ned and Aunt Cat’s roof. Aunt Cat has no idea.

“We could go in,” Sam says. He’s gazing longingly at the counter, where several glass domes cover golden pies. 

“Sam, the cops and donuts thing is a joke,” Jon says. “And Selmy’s already on you to drop a few pounds.”

“I can go for a run later,” Sam says. “Nobody can blame us for warming up a bit, we’ve still got our radios.”

Jon sighs.

“We go to Wildling’s all the time,” Sam points out. “I don’t complain.”

Actually he does, but Jon really doesn’t want to start that argument again. 

“Fine,” Jon says. “Let’s go.”

The shop _is_ blessedly warm. It smells like sugar and vanilla and yeast, and Jon inhales deeply.

“Good afternoon,” a woman says. She’s behind the counter, long brown hair falling in messy waves. Jon thinks she looks familiar but he can’t quite place her. She has that kind of average, plain looking kind of face that could really belong to a lot of people.

“Hi,” Sam says, and his voice is ... off.

When Jon turns to look, Sam is staring at the woman behind the counter with a goofy grin on his face that Jon hasn’t seen before.

Maybe it wasn’t the pies he’d been looking at.

“What can I help you with?” the woman asks, wiping her hands on her apron. 

Sam is staring ahead blankly, and the woman looks like she’s becoming a bit unnerved.

“What’s your pie today?” Jon asks. After the baker runs through the listing, Jon settles on ordering a slice of apple in a rosemary crust and a slice of cranberry pear. 

“You just opened?” Jon asks, while the baker rings them up.’

“Last week,” she confirms. “We’ll have a grand opening at the end of the month.”

“I’m Jon,”Jon says. “Jon Snow. This is my partner, Sam.”

“I’m Gilly,” she says. She looks over at Sam and Jon notices a pink flush creep over her cheeks. “Hi Sam.”

“Oh!” Sam startles. “Hello, Sam. I mean, Gilly. Yes. I’m Sam. Hi.”

Jon cringes. 

“I’m sure we’ll be back,” he says to Gilly, as he drags Sam to a table. “We patrol this area a lot.”

“That would be lovely,” Gilly says, seeming not to have noticed Sam’s sudden inability to use the English language.

Jon takes a bite of the apple pie, then pauses. He steals a piece of Sam’s cranberry pear. The golden crust flakes perfectly against the fork and nearly melts in his mouth. The fruit is just the right balance between crisp and easy to eat. And the flavors are unique, but not so new that they take away from the familiar comforts of traditional pies.

They’ll definitely be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can recommend both pies with confidence. [Rosemary apple](https://www.thebakerchick.com/rosemary-apple-pie/) and [cranberry pear](https://bakerbynature.com/cranberry-pear-pie/). I feel like pear is an under-utilized fruit in the pie world, in general. 
> 
> Cat either has a well-developed sixth sense about how many children (and assorted hangers on) will come for weekly dinners or a very well-developed gossip network that keeps her up to date on who has plans. You pick which you believe is more likely.


	7. She Always Had A Thing About Falling In Love With A Bad Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen takes her class on a field trip expecting nothing more than a day in nature. She definitely doesn't expect Rickon Stark.

“Okay class, everyone hold hands,” Shireen Baratheon says, looking along the line of five-and-six-year-olds. “Do you all have someone’s hand?”

“Yes, Miss Shireen,” they chorus. 

Shireen considers that maybe taking kindergarteners and first graders on a field trip was not her best idea, but a few mothers have agreed to help out and it’s too late to back out anyway. The trip is standard for the class, and Shireen had dutifully assisted during her year as a student teacher. Now it’s her turn to take charge.

Once they’re at the edge of the woods, all they need is their guide. Shireen checks her watch again.

Brynden Tully isn’t one to be late and Shireen has a moment of panic that she got the date wrong or something like that. Something utterly humiliating for the first year of having her own class. 

Shireen is certain she didn’t forget the date. She’s got her planner very carefully organized, and this field trip has been on the books for months. 

Then a beat up old car pulls up, rattles to a stop, and a guy who must be a couple of years younger than Shireen slouches out and looks over at them. He’s good-looking, but he’s also covered in tattoos and has messy red hair and... is he wearing eyeliner?

Shireen smooths down the front of her cardigan and brushes her hands on her skirt. She’s not ashamed of how she looks or dresses, but she’s an elementary school teacher and she _looks_ like an elementary school teacher. When she sees people like this guy, she always feels a little inadequate, a little pathetic for liking pretty dresses and sweaters in pastel colors, for her pink coat and coordinating hat and mittens.

The guy looks over.

“Shireen Baratheon?” He asks. Shireen startles.

“Yes,” she answers, hurrying over to the car. 

“Brynden’s sick,” the man says. “He sent me to do ... whatever this is.”

Shireen feels a little faint. One of the classroom mothers is already clutching the hand of the nearest child, and glaring daggers at Shireen and the man. 

“Okay ...” Shireen trails off, realizing she doesn’t know his name.

“Rickon Stark.” Apparently he’s just realized that as well. “So what’s the deal?”

“This is our fall class field trip,” Shireen says brightly. “We go on a short nature walk and Brynden teaches the kids about different kinds of trees and they collect leaves to press when we get back to school.”

“Like, with wax paper and shit?” Rickon asks. “Yes, that’s the general idea.” Shireen looks at him again. The mothers are going to despise him. 

Rickon looks over. 

“Fuck,” he says. 

“If you could maybe not say that where they can hear,” Shireen says. Although she’s almost certain they’re close enough that someone did. Aegon Estermont looks very interested, which is never a good sign. 

Rickon sighs. 

“Trees,” he says. 

“Trees,” Shireen confirms.

It goes ... less badly than Shireen expects. Which is a pretty low bar, honestly. Rickon pulls a leather jacket out and slings it on over his tee shirt (and how he’s not freezing, Shireen has no idea) which at least covers the tattoos. It also has the unfortunate side effect of making Shireen’s knees feel a little weak.

The kids have their paper bags and Rickon dutifully points out different types of trees and, with Shireen’s prompting, explains how the leaves and bark or nuts/flowers/cones can help them know which it is. 

“If it’s a fruit, can I eat it?” Jaime Frey examines the red berries on the holly tree, picking some into his hand as Shireen darts forward.

Rickon snatches them away before she can get there. “Fuck! No, they’re poisonous.” 

Shireen winces. 

“Really?” Walder Goodbrook asks, wide-eyed. 

“Yes,” Rickon says. “But you know what is edible? This pine tree.” 

He breaks off some needles and chews on them for emphasis, then spits them out.

“They don’t taste very good like this,” Rickon says. “But you can make tea or syrup from them, and it’s got lots of vitamin C.”

Shireen hurries forward and takes the holly berries Walder is grabbing out of his bag. 

“Vitamin C is very important to help you all grow big and strong,” she tells the kid. “That’s why it’s important to eat your fruits and vegetables.”

“Even spinach?” Walder asks.

“Even spinach,” Shireen says. “I like spinach, actually.”

Rickon makes the same face most of the kids do.

Rickon isn’t exactly good with children, but he does know what he’s talking about. And when the kids jump or shout, he doesn’t yell or get mad, he just grins and answers them. The kids pick up lots of leaves, showing them off to each other and the adults before putting them in their bags. 

Rickon also says fuck a few more times, which makes the mothers gasp and the kids giggle, except for Loreza Sand who just rolls her eyes. Shireen suspects Loreza’s parents aren’t terribly bothered about foul language, though they’ve clearly taught Loreza it’s not appropriate for school. 

Then little Rhaella Marbrand suggests they see who can climb the highest in a tree and before Shireen can shut the idea down, Rickon is agreeing and pointing them to a large maple with conveniently low branches that he starts scaling himself. 

In no time flat, there are 10 children and one Rickon perched in a tree, giggling and declaring themselves the best. One of the mothers looks like she’s having heart palpitations already, and the other is mumbling under her breath. 

Shireen wonders if she’s updated her resume lately. 

Still, it’s adorable, and she has to sneak a picture with her phone. Dunk Crakehall, who has stayed down, tugs at her hand. 

“It’s silly,” Dunk says. He’s a very serious child. Too serious, sometimes.

“Being silly can be fun,” Shireen says. 

“My dad says it isn’t dignified,” Dunk says.

Dunk’s dad makes Shireen’s dad look like a shining example of tolerance and chill, and that’s saying something. 

“Why don’t you give it a try,” Shireen says. She leads him forward, stopping to look at Jory Cassel. He can’t climb, not with the crutches he needs to stand. Shireen’s a little surprised his parents allowed him to come on the field trip at all, since they’re usually so overprotective. Shireen doesn’t blame them. She can’t imagine raising a child with cerebral palsy and not being nervous.

“Why don’t _you_ climb?” one of the kids shouts.

“I’m not good at climbing,” Shireen answers. “Jory and I can watch.”

A few of the kids protest, and then they start being sad about Jory not being able to climb. It’s a near revolt, and Shireen is pretty sure one of the mothers is trying to make a cell phone call even though there’s no reception, probably to try to get Shireen fired. 

“Just because Jory can’t climb, doesn’t mean he can’t join us,” Rickon says, and jumps, JUMPS off the branch he’s sitting on. Which has to be at least six feet in the air. He lands lightly next to Shireen, who can’t help but gasp. 

It’s a terrible idea, but before she can stop it, Rickon is picking Jory up and laying his crutches next to the tree. Rickon is gentle as he puts Jory on a low branch, right next to the trunk, quietly instructing him to hold onto it. 

It probably shouldn’t make Shireen’s stomach lurch in a very pleasant sort of way, but it absolutely does.

She really needs to get it together.

“Now it’s your turn,” Rickon says and Shireen takes a step back. 

“Oh no. I’m wearing a skirt, I can’t climb a tree.” She holds her hands up to ward him off.

“Yeah, stupid choice for going to the woods, by the way,” Rickon says. He steps closer, evading her hands and putting his hands on Shireen’s waist.

Shireen feels her breath catch in her throat and prays he doesn’t notice. “Really, I’m fine on the ground.” 

Rickon smells like leather and pine sap and he seems even taller up close, where Shireen can stare directly at his chest. A chest which is clearly well-muscled under his tee shirt. It’s all very distracting.

The kids are cheering and shouting encouragement. 

“Come on,” Rickon says. “You can’t disappoint your class, can you?”

He doesn’t give Shireen a chance to object, and he’s picking her up like she weighs nothing. A fact which Shireen absolutely files away to think about later.and He settles her on a higher branch than Jory, before scrambling up next to her. The kids clap. Shireen clutches the branch and glares at Rickon, who just shrugs.

Shireen is definitely getting fired after this.

It’s probably worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shireen's wardrobe is inspired by Mary Margaret Blanchard in Once Upon A Time. She is one of many characters in this 'verse with a [pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/quirkyknitgirl/small-town-westeros/shireen/).


	8. Come A Little Closer*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha shows up at Val's with a hammer. And a halibut.

Asha does have some halibut in her deep freeze from her last trip out fishing. She’s only halfway sure Val was serious, but she figures bringing it can’t hurt. And she’ll throw in some salmon for good measure. 

It feels bizarrely like carrying a bouquet of flowers as Asha makes her way up the mountain. She doesn’t know what today is, really, or what Val expects.

She’s fairly sure Val doesn’t expect her to show up.

Up until she got in the car, _Asha_ wasn’t sure she’d show up.

Val answers Asha’s knock with a smirk. She’s wearing jeans and a work-shirt with the sleeves rolled up despite the weather, and Asha wants nothing more than to undo the buttons with her teeth. Val stops her when she steps forward, though, a hand lightly pushing back on Asha’s chest before she can so much as kiss Val.

“I’m putting you to work, remember?” Val takes the fish, though, and adds it to a deep freeze next to the refrigerator. 

Val leads Asha to the foundation and skeleton of a building Asha had seen on her last visit and quizzes Asha on what she knows about construction. As it turns out, Asha knows jack shit about construction, which makes Val sigh and roll her eyes. 

“I can perform multiple animal surgeries,” Asha reminds her. “You won’t be so disappointed when you need to castrate your goats.”

“It’s cute that you think I can’t do that on my own too,” Val says. 

Still, Val deems Asha able to follow instructions and so Asha finds herself spending Saturday out in the cold, holding and nailing boards to the skeleton of what will eventually be a sauna. Val is not terribly talkative, though she does explain the basics of what they’re doing and how the sauna will operate. 

Asha is briefly distracted by a vision of Val in said sauna, extremely naked and spread out in a cloud of steam while Asha licks her way up Val’s lovely legs... and then she smashes a hammer into her thumb instead of the nail she’s meant to hit.

The look on Val’s face says she knows exactly what Asha was thinking.

It is certainly not the way Asha usually spends a Saturday. On an average Saturday, she wouldn’t bother being awake before noon. Once she rolled out of bed, she’d likely spend most of the day sprawled on the couch with some beers watching shitty action movies. Or, if Theon emerged from his room, watching shitty rom coms because Theon can’t handle violence on TV anymore. Not since Ramsey. 

It is more than a little bit concerning, but Theon flatly refuses to admit there’s anything wrong or that he might need to see a therapist. So Asha just tries to help him where she can. It’s not like she tells him that, though, but there’s probably no other person in the world Asha would watch shitty rom coms for, and Theon has to know that. 

But now Asha is building an actual fucking building, or at least helping Val build an actual fucking building, and it’s dead quiet outside in a way that usually makes Asha antsy. There’s not even a radio, just the breeze and the occasional noises from the goats or chickens. Even Val’s dog is quiet, which is definitely not like Asha’s dogs.

Though in fairness, Asha does have quite a few more dogs. 

Plus Rocket.

Asha loses track of how long they work, though she does ask a few questions about the farm and learns Val’s goal is to be as self-sufficient as possible. While Asha appreciates the desire to free oneself from the structures of The Man™️, no TV and heating your house via a wood burning stove seems to be taking it a bit far. 

At least there’s a septic system. Val had explained that some of her homesteading cousins didn’t even have that much modernity and preferred outhouses. 

It’s after noon when Val decides enough progress has been made and they can have lunch. She’s halfway through pulling sandwich supplies out of her cupboards when Asha decides she’s had enough and spins Val around and pushes her back against the counter so she can kiss her.

Val doesn’t push her away this time, just wraps her arms around Asha and responds in kind. 

“I was wondering when you’d try that again,” Val says when they break for air. 

Asha grazes her teeth over the skin beneath Val’s ear, gratified when Val gasps and tilts her head to give Asha more access. 

“Didn’t seem wise when you were holding tools you could brain me with,” Asha finally responds, but not until she’s done trailing her lips down Val’s neck, enjoying the little sounds Val makes, the softness of Val’s skin.

Asha boosts Val up onto the counter, and grins when Val spreads her legs to let Asha step closer. Val feels delicious under Asha’s hands, more muscles and strength than most of the women Asha has been with, and it’s almost torture to move her hands to start undoing the buttons on Val’s shirt. 

Val buries her hands in Asha’s hair as she undoes the buttons, tugging just enough to give a hint of pain. 

Asha gets as far as getting the buttons open and is busy kissing and nipping a path over Val’s breasts when Val’s grip becomes more than a little painful and she’s tugging Asha’s head up. 

“We need to stop.” Val’s voice is lower than usual but she manages to sound firm.

“Do we though?” Asha attempts to duck her head back down but Val doesn’t let up.

“Yes.”

Asha groans and manages to free herself enough to rest her head on Val’s collarbone. It’s a lovely collarbone, really, covered in peachy skin and smelling faintly of sweat and cedar. Even sweaty, Val smells appealing.

“You have a reputation you know,” Val says.

“I assume it’s for having the best tongue in three counties.” 

“You are very confident.” Val nudges Asha backward, but she doesn’t button her shirt, which is frankly unfair. 

Especially since Val has made the choice to wear a very lacey white bra under her very practical work-shirt and it’s hitting every one of Asha’s buttons. 

Asha squeezes Val’s thighs. “I’m happy to put myself to the test.”

“Mmm,” Val says. “It’s a little soon for that. Especially with someone who’s known to fuck and run.”

“It’s not running.” Asha rolls her shoulders. “I don’t make promises. Everyone has a good time, everyone’s happy.” 

“Well, I’m not looking for promises. But I’m not looking to let someone into my bed without knowing them better, first.” 

“I’m an open book.” 

“Asha.” Val sighs. “Look, you’re hot, this was in fact _very_ good, but I live out here for a good reason. This is my sanctuary, and it’s not a place where I let just anyone in. I’d like to see you again, but I mean actually seeing you. Before we jump into bed.”

“So, wine you and dine you.” Asha doesn’t think she’s actually taken anyone out on a real date in years. 

“Well, I’m open to more creative options, though dinner and wine don’t usually go amiss. But that’s my cards on the table. The rest is up to you.”

It’s an incredibly stupid idea. Asha isn’t good at commitment. The only long-term relationships in her life are her brother Theon and her friendship with Brienne. Both of which are thankfully uncomplicated by sex, although she certainly tried with Brienne. It’s kind of amazing that they ever became friends after the first few weeks of rooming together, when Asha had pulled out all the seduction stops, only to find Brienne wasn’t playing coy. She genuinely had no idea what Asha was doing until Asha was waiting, naked, in her bed and was flattered yet horrified. 

Relationships don’t end well, not for Greyjoys. Asha’s already broken the Greyjoy curse by graduating. Not just from high school, but also college and vet school. And she’s held down a full-time job and now she’s an honest-to-God business owner. _And_ she’s not an alcoholic and has only been in jail a handful of times.

Asking for a normal, loving relationship on top of that really just seems like tempting fate. As far as Asha’s concerned, she has hookups for sex, and her friends and brother for emotional connection. And it’s for the better that the two never combine. 

There’s no logical reason Val should be any different.

“I’m probably going to suck at this,” Asha warns. “Really. Terribly.” 

“Well, I’ll kick you to the curb, then,” Val says. “So step up, Greyjoy.”

This is probably a terrible mistake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really cannot give ladybugbear2 enough credit for plowing through the chapters I keep tossing at her.
> 
> I'm not saying I could be wooed with a nice, wild-caught salmon, but I'm not saying I _couldn't_ be wooed with one either.


	9. The House That Built Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving at the Starks is an experience.

There’s nothing quiet about a Stark family Thanksgiving. 

Sansa has been working since Tuesday, helping get everything ready. Between extended family, significant others, and friends (or strays) they’re over twenty this year. 

Which is fine, it just means Sansa has been spending the better part of the past week at her parent’s house working on prep so her mother doesn't have to do it all by herself. At least Robb and Bran are helping too, and Jon when he’s not working. 

If Sansa never sees another cranberry again in her life, it will be too soon.

(She says this every year.)

Still, Sansa feels a swell of warmth when she looks around the dining room. Her dad has put several of the leaves in the table, and it fits all of them comfortably, even if the chairs don’t all match. (Aunt Lysa definitely has something to say about that, but thankfully Uncle Jon is good at re-directing her. Usually.)

The table is decorated with autumn leaves and gourds, and it actually looks nice this year, now that the duty has passed from Rickon to Robin, as the youngest child. Rickon’s tables tended to look like a disaster hit, but nobody was going to let him get out of it just because he did a terrible job. 

Robin has issues, but Sansa’s cousin at least has some degree of thoughtfulness. Even if it had taken him two hours to get the job done because he’d had to count every leaf and evenly distribute them. Sansa’s pretty sure he had a ruler at one point.

Sansa’s honestly surprised that the table doesn’t sag under the weight of all the food. Two golden brown turkeys, giant pans of stuffing, huge bowls of cranberry sauce and gravy, an actual vat of mashed potatoes, and two varieties of sweet potatoes (thank god they’re no longer having the annual marshmallow vs. pecan crust debate) are just a start. 

Maybe it’s silly, but there’s something so special about only getting the dishes once a year. Sansa knows she could make green bean casserole or creamed onions any time, but there’s something better about them for only being served at Thanksgiving.

She’s also looking forward to trying the savory mashed squash Mr. Reed brought this year (Sansa still can’t call him Howland, even though he’s asked her to, it feels too weird) and the Moroccan carrot dish her mom has added. Sansa thinks the regular carrots are great, but her mom says she’ll go insane if she keeps making the same exact thing for another 40-some years, so whatever makes her happy.

Sansa can’t imagine having Thanksgiving in a smaller crowd, can’t imagine not having to elbow Robb and Arya to get to the last bit of corn pudding or having to almost shout to be heard. Or waiting impatiently for everyone to go around saying what they’re thankful for, which takes for _ever_ , or watching Rickon and Arya make faces at each other with food in their mouths. Which, honestly, Rickon is 22, they should have grown out of that. 

Sansa wishes her new boss at the animal shelter had agreed to come. Brienne is so nice and so smart and so strong, Sansa looks up to her. And Brienne said it’s just her and her father! How do you even cook a turkey for two people? It makes Sansa want to cry.

It’s not like there aren’t other people here. Arya always brings her boss, because his family is all back in Braavos and they don’t do Thanksgiving there anyway. And Bran’s boss is here this year too, since Alys’ father died last year. 

Alys looks a little shell-shocked, actually. Sansa should probably check on her before dessert. The Starks, en masse, can be a bit overwhelming if you’re not used to it. And Bran is too busy making eyes at Meera to notice anything, or anyone, else. 

What’s most interesting this year is saying thanks. Rickon says thanks for _teaching people new things_ , which is the most un-Rickon-like thing Sansa has ever heard, so something is up there. Robb mumbles something about kindness and forgiveness, which makes Sansa think he’s got someone he’s trying to date and failing (as usual). Then Jon says coffee and Jon _barely even drinks coffee_ , what is going on?

Then again, Sansa says yarn and tea, which has a few of her siblings raising their eyebrows. So she’s not entirely blameless. 

Luckily, she’s seated between Alys – whose baked mushrooms with parmesan are amazing, they are definitely inviting her back next year with a request – and Grandfather Tully, who is talking about his interesting cases so far this year. Sansa hums politely and pretends to care about the town’s new loitering laws and how it’s clogging up the court and taking up all Grandfather’s time, while trying desperately to turn the conversation back to Alys and new ideas for ice cream flavors at the shop.

Sansa is practically bursting by the time the guests leave (but not before she gets Syrio’s pumpkin gnocchi recipe) and the Uncles go to clean up. Then it’s time for the younger Starks to all head to the den for the traditional sibling time.

Or, interrogate and beat each other until everyone spills their secrets time. 

“Coffee?” Sansa demands, looking at Jon. Then turns to Rickon. “And teaching people?”

“What the fuck,” Bran agrees. He’s still got a plate of pie, and that’s where the last slice of apple cider cream pie went, the little jerk. Sansa wanted that piece. 

Jon breaks first, of course, and apparently he has an epic crush on the coffee girl at Wildlings. Sansa has met her a few times – Jon is going to get eaten alive. Probably before he even gets laid. 

Robb turns about seven shades of red talking about Talisa at the pharmacy, and Sansa makes a note to go pick up some vitamins so she can do some recon. 

Sansa obligingly spills about Margaery, because she’s totally been waiting for this chance, until Arya starts fake gagging. It’s not Sansa’s fault Margaery is so wonderful and easy to talk about, honestly.

Rickon is the last to cave. It takes Arya jumping on his neck like a monkey and holding him still while Sansa and Robb tickle him before he caves. It’s worked like a charm since he was four, although he’s become significantly more difficult to hold down since then, hence Arya. 

Sansa politely refrains from asking where her sister learned the spots to use to effectively immobilize someone so much bigger than herself. 

“I just filled in for Uncle Brynden with some stuff,” Rickon says. 

Arya twists his ear. 

“There was a girl who’s kinda cool,” Rickon allows. He looks over. “She reminds me of you, kinda.”

Sansa stops tickling him in shock. 

Look, she loves all her brothers (and Arya) but Sansa and Rickon are about as polar opposite as it’s possible to be. 

“Me?” Sansa repeats, in case he’s actually talking to Arya. 

“Yeah, she’s like some kind of a Disney princess or something,” Rickon goes on. His cheeks are actually turning pink. “She’s really sweet, it’s like you expect birds to come out and sing songs while flying around her or something.”

Arya falls off Rickon’s back in shock. 

Sansa didn’t realize Rickon had paid such close attention to the Disney movies she’d make him watch when they were kids, but clearly Cinderella had sunk in at least a little. 

Robb waves his hand in front of Rickon’s face. “Are you drunk?”

“What?” 

It’s a hilariously defensive yelp coming from someone who’s over six feet tall with full sleeve tattoos and what is probably a very handsome beard. Or something. He’s very proud of it, but Sansa doesn’t pretend to know or care about the attractiveness of facial hair. 

“Opposites can attract,” Jon offers, but he’s smirking. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Rickon argues. 

It’s more words than Sansa has heard her youngest brother say about anyone ever, let alone a girl. Woman, she supposes, now they’re all adults. As weird as that is. 

“Have you slept with her?” Bran is always the bluntest. 

“It’s not a thing,” Rickon says again. “I’ve just seen her around a couple of times.”

A woman Rickon has seen around and wants to talk to _and_ who he hasn’t slept with already? This just gets more interesting by the minute. 

It takes a while but they eventually weasel a name out of him, Shireen Baratheon, although he refuses to say what she does. Which means it’s embarrassing. Considering Rickon’s last hookups have included a stripper, a drummer in a failed rock band, a woman with facial tattoos, and a woman Sansa is pretty sure was a drug dealer, she’s not sure what qualifies as embarrassing for him.

It’s so nice to hear, though. Maybe he’ll find someone that cares about him. Sansa thinks her brother wants that a lot more than he’ll admit. It fills her with joy to see most of her siblings closer to finding their person, especially since Sansa hopefully is, too.

Now she just has to figure someone out for Arya, and it’ll be just perfect. 

Thanksgiving next year might be even bigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You want food links, right? [Mashed butternut squash with goat cheese and rosemary](https://reciperunner.com/mashed-butternut-squash-goat-cheese-rosemary/), [Moroccan carrots](https://www.healthyseasonalrecipes.com/moroccan-carrots/), [corn pudding](https://www.tastesoflizzyt.com/5-ingredient-corn-casserole/), [baked mushroom with red wine and parmesan crumbs](https://neighborfoodblog.com/2016/11/baked-mushrooms-with-red-wine-and-parmesan-crumbs.html), and [pumpkin gnocchi with sage butter sauce](https://pinchofyum.com/pumpkin-gnocchi). The only one I can personally vouch for is the corn pudding, which gets even better if you add bacon and caramelized onions. Oh, and the [apple cider cream pie](https://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2014/03/jays-apple-cider-cream-pie.html).


	10. Hate To Break Down Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya has had better days.

Arya Stark shouldn’t have been driving in this weather. She’s fully aware of this fact, and the reality that the car accident is most definitely her fault.

But it’s been an unseasonably warm day for November, and given October’s shockingly swift plunge into cold weather, Arya can’t resist taking a trip out to the mountains to steal one last, good, long hike. 

It had been glorious, the trees showing the last of fall color and the sun warming her up along with the activity. But she’d stayed too long, and when Arya had finally made it back down to the parking lot,all the other cars were gone and the mist was rolling in. 

By the time Arya was approaching Westeros city limits, the mist had grown into fog so bad she couldn’t even see a full car-length ahead of her. She’d slowed way down, put on her hazards and prayed to make it to safety.

If she was smart, Arya would have stopped at the turn off to the Reeds. They’d certainly have let her stay until the weather cleared. But she’d kept on, relying on memory, and it had gone well, right up until the deer came bounding across the road in front of her.

Arya knows she’s lucky. She’s not hurt, though she’s already feeling a massive bruise coming on where her seatbelt sat across her chest, and her car isn’t nearly as bad as it could be. Plus, she’d managed to avoid having the deer come through the window and taking an antler to the chest, so that’s a plus.

But when she’d called Bear Island, Jorah had grumpily informed her it would take at least an hour for a tow, because she’s too far out for him to come without closing the store.

Arya’s lucky enough to have a trunk packed full of useful items, so she passes the time by field-dressing the deer and salvaging as much meat as she can, packing into spare coolers. She also calls Uncle Benjen to report the incident, and maybe tease him about getting a beautiful set of antlers with no effort.

The fog has brought with it a drop in temperature and by the time Jorah pulls up and takes a good look at her car, Arya is shivering in her light sweatshirt and jeans. She’s pulled on her emergency hat and fingerless gloves from her backpack but her fingertips are still numb. 

Her dad will lecture her on not taking a jacket, hauling out his “always be prepared for the worst when you’re out in the woods” speech but Arya knows the trail so well she hadn’t bothered with one, just her bright orange don’t-shoot-me vest. 

Jorah grumbles about how far out she is the entire trip to Valyrian Steel. Arya’s called Mott too, and he’s assured her he’ll take the car even though it’s Saturday.

Except when Jorah pulls up, it’s definitely _not_ Tobho Mott standing in front of the open bay. 

Arya barely stops her jaw from dropping at the sight of the tall man leaning against the door frame, looking disgruntled. 

“Who the fuck are you?” she demands.

The man raises his eyebrows.

“Nice greeting for someone who’s coming in on their day off to save your ass,” he says. 

“This is Tobho’s garage.” Arya narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“What do you think I did, whack him in the head and tie him up in back?”

Arya shrugs.

“Jesus, Arya, I work here,” the man says. “Mott’s busy, he asked me to get your car in so we can look at it on Monday.”

“How do you know my name?” Arya demands.

The man starts laughing. Arya doesn’t see what’s so funny about it. There’s nothing funny about this entire afternoon, really, especially after losing feeling in her toes and fingertips and then having to listen to Jorah bitch and moan the entire drive back to town.

And even after the heat in the tow truck, Arya’s toes are still numb.

“Oh my god, you don’t recognize me,” the man says. “Think about it.”

Arya stares at him as he gets the car into the bay, still shivering. He huffs and sighs when she tells him he can’t just close up, they have to wait for Sansa to come get her because she can’t walk home with two-thirds of a deer in her arms. And she’s not wasting it, that would be extremely irresponsible. 

She doesn’t recognize the man, no matter how many smirks he sends her way. He seems like someone Arya would remember meeting, and he seems to be enjoying her confusion. He seems to be enjoying the whole situation, actually, as Arya fumes and unpacks the contents of her trunk into the parking lot, instead of offering to help.

Okay, so Arya carries a lot of stuff in her car, it’s good to be prepared. 

He also insists she take his spare sweatshirt when he notices how much she’s shivering, even if it comes down to her knees and the sleeves hang down past her hands, something that sends him into a new round of laughter every time he glances her way.

Every possibility Arya suggests of how they might have met, he just laughs off. He’s definitely not the type of person to patronize an antique store, so seeing him while she’s working is out. And Arya can tell he’s older than her, so they wouldn’t have known each other in school.

Which leaves everything else, except Arya gets nowhere. He doesn’t fence. He doesn’t do archery. He doesn’t play softball and actually looks vaguely insulted by the suggestion. 

He also declines to offer any information of his own.

Arya would punch him, if she didn’t need him to fix her car.

“Who _are_ you?” she asks again, while he’s examining the way the front of her car has crumpled in.

“You really don’t remember,” he says. “I’m insulted, m’lady.”

Arya blinks. 

“Gendry?!?”

Arya remembers Gendry from when he worked for Uncle Brynden one summer. God, that was ages ago. Arya had been in middle school? Maybe? Her parents had been taking out some diseased trees and replacing them, so Brynden and his employees had been at the house a lot. Gendry’d come over to mow the lawn, too, and tease her for sitting on the porch like a spoiled noble lady instead of helping.

Arya’s not spoiled, her parents just put a prohibition on any of the Stark children using the riding mower until they turned 21 because they got tired of ER bills.

Gendry had not been that tall then. Arya doesn’t remember his eyes being so blue either. And he _definitely_ hadn’t had biceps like that. 

This is a _very_ interesting development. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hunting is sometimes controversial, however, I imagine Ned Stark being a conservationist minded hunter. The kind who recognizes that without a certain amount of hunting, overpopulation causes a lot of problems and also believes in not killing for sport. He'd hunt, and teach his children to do so, but they would eat the meat and if for some reason they had too much, they'd donate it the local food pantry. I also imagine him and Benjen are pretty practical folks, and are not entirely opposed to scavenging as Arya does here. Every part of that deer she collects is going to be put to use somehow. 
> 
> Also, if you see a deer, don't worry about the deer getting hit if you hit it. Worry about you or your car — people have been killed by deer coming through the windshield. And they can fuck your car up pretty good.


	11. Oh, Christmas Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne thinks it's too cold for their annual tradition, but she has a hard time saying no to her father.

“But it’s tradition!” 

Brienne looks at her father’s face, the way he’s trying to disguise the hurt in his eyes, and sighs.

Her dad is very big on Christmas traditions, while Brienne has never been as enthusiastic. Even as a child, she didn’t really see the point in all the fuss. Especially for just the two of them.

That’s probably why Selwyn is so big on tradition. He remembers Christmas before all the tragedies hit the Tarth family, back when they were big and boisterous. Brienne has seen the home videos, but has no memory of those years. She knows her father has hoped to have that again, for years. First with the women he’s tried to find love with and then later with the idea that Brienne would have her own family. 

Nothing seems to convince him that they can scale down and accept their holidays being small and quiet.

“It was warmer on Tarth,” Brienne tries. It comes out less assured than she’d like. “I like the tradition, dad, but it’s very cold.”

Selwyn hefts his axe over his shoulder and grins. “We’ll have to toughen up! Like real northerners.”

Brienne doesn’t think she’s toughening up terribly well. Thermal underwear and a good coat had carried her through October and most of November. But now she’s got thermal underwear on under her jeans, multiple shirts and a sweater, thick wool socks, one of those puffy coats that makes her look like a giant sleeping bag, plus a hat and mittens and she’s still cold to her bones. 

Sansa says it’s the quality of her accessories but Brienne is starting to believe people born and raised in Westeros are just somehow impervious to winter.

“I’ve even shut down the restaurant for lunch today,” Selwyn says. Brienne winces. 

Brienne’s first thought when Asha called and said she had a business proposal had been her father. Unlikely friends and roommates they may have been, but she and Asha had always discussed owning a practice together after they graduated. They complement each other well, and neither of them are particularly fond of most other people. Selwyn had been so pleased when Brienne returned to Tarth after graduating, though, and when she’d thought about telling him she was moving her stomach hurt. 

But Asha had gone behind her back and called Selwyn herself, and both of them had rightly pointed out that the opportunity the Manderlys were offering was too good to pass up. Then her father surprised Brienne even more by declaring he’d turn the business over to Uncle Duncan and Jorgen, who Selwyn had been mentoring for years, and follow her north. 

Brienne’s father had always talked about opening up a restaurant instead of running fishing boats. Brienne thought it was just dreaming, but once they’d arrived in Westeros, he’d snapped up a vacant storefront and set about opening Westeros’ only pizza parlour and Italian restaurant. It’s been a huge hit and her father seems happy, but Brienne knows it can’t have been easy to leave his brothers and all his friends behind to follow his strange, ugly daughter.

“Fine,” Brienne says. Her dad is the one person who’s always been there for her, through the worst of everything, after all. 

Brienne does insist they stop at Wildlings for coffee and her dad adds a visit to Seven Sisters for cinnamon buns. Selwyn greets the snarky barista and sweet baker with familiarity and cheer, charming smiles out of them both in a way Brienne can’t even imagine doing.

The tree farm is outside of town, part of the big state park that comes right up to the edge of Westeros. Brienne wishes she’d gotten some time to hike in, but it got cold so quickly after the move that she hasn’t explored The Gift yet. A friendly ranger with a nametag declaring him Benjen Stark — which makes Brienne wonder briefly if he’s related to Sansa — directs them down a road to a dirt lot.

There are a lot of cars, especially considering how cold it is, but there also seem to be a good number of rangers guiding people and supplying axes or tree cutting services as needed. 

Brienne lets her dad lead the way. Selwyn whistles as he goes, nodding and calling out greetings to customers he recognizes. 

Brienne doesn’t know how they’re related, sometimes. Her father can make friends with anyone, quickly, while Brienne can know someone for years and still feel enormously awkward around them. 

She wonders if her mother was shy and awkward too. 

“Ah,” Selwyn says, gazing at a pine. “This is a magnificent one.”

Brienne squints upward.

“Dad, it’s at least fifteen feet tall. I don’t think your ceilings are _that_ high.” 

“Well, we’ll take a little off the trunk,” Selwyn argues. Brienne shakes her head.

“You’re not going to take _that_ much off,” she points out.

They continue that way for a while. Brienne’s dad seems drawn to trees too tall to fit in his house or so wide across the base they’d take up the entire living room. Brienne, meanwhile, has an affinity for misshapen and stunted trees that seem to be destined to be ignored by the crowd.

“It’s charming,” Brienne says, touching the branches of a tree that curves off to one side, with large gaps in between the boughs. 

“A Christmas tree needs to look good,” Selwyn says. “This one’s better as a tree for the birds and squirrels.”

Selwyn insists the tree be taller than both of them, which wouldn’t be entirely unreasonable, save for the fact that Brienne’s over six feet tall and her father is coming close to seven. Brienne’s glad Selwyn opted to buy a house with vaulted ceilings, so even a tall tree will fit. She suspects he had Christmas in mind when choosing where to live. 

They finally reach an agreement on a tree long after Brienne’s fingers and nose have gone numb. Somehow her father seems invigorated by the cold, instead of wanting to curl up under a blanket and stay there until spring like Brienne wishes she could.

Brienne remembers the first time she was allowed to use the axe as she and her father take turns chopping at the trunk of the tree they’ve selected. Brienne must have been about 10, probably too young, but already big and strong for her age. Selwyn had carefully shown her how to swing the axe and where on the trunk to hit before letting her try. She’d been so proud of herself; until a boy from her class saw her and started laughing. By Monday the entire grade was calling Brienne a lumberjack and asking if she was sure she was really a girl. 

Brienne still looks around to see if anyone is nearby before she takes a swing at the trunk. 

The tree is heavy as they cart it back to the car and maneuver it up on the roof. But they both wave off the rangers with sleds who offer to help, in unspoken agreement to leave them free for people who genuinely need assistance. It’s one times it’s good to be so freakishly tall, Brienne has to admit, watching other people struggle to load trees with the help of park rangers. There’s one petite woman who Brienne really hopes has someone at home, because the rangers tie her tree up well but there’s no way she’s going to get it off alone. Not when her head doesn’t even come anywhere close to the roof of her SUV. 

It’s almost three before they get the tree to Selwyn’s house, dig up the tree stand, and get it perfectly positioned in front of the big picture window in the living room. Though that’s as much as they can do today. Her father needs to get the restaurant ready to open for dinner and Brienne needs to go by the shelter — it’s closed to the public on Sundays but she and Sansa still have to make rounds to get all the animals fed and watered. 

The tree will have to be decorated another day. Brienne is sure her father will be as festive as usual, hauling out boxes of ornaments and lights, blasting Christmas carols, and making mulled wine. He’ll probably remind Brienne how much more fun Christmas is with children and hint, badly, at how much he’d love to see her settled down. And then finally he’ll put on Christmas movies to try to drag Brienne into having holiday spirit.

Perhaps this year it’ll work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selwyn wants grandchildren and he wants them now. He also wants to be happy and loved, but really, he wants a big bunch of grandkids to spoil. Spoiling the cats just isn't the same, even if they do all get Christmas stockings. (What? Do your animals NOT?)


	12. A Thrill Of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's enthusiasm for the holidays is a little bit catching.

It’s Sansa’s idea to decorate the shelter for the holidays. 

Brienne’s lead volunteer has performed actual miracles of scheduling and morale at the shelter, but she kind of bowls Brienne over with her enthusiasm sometimes. Still, Sansa is there several days a week and she’s great with all the animals, but especially the dogs. And she does so much work without getting paid.

Brienne is somewhat worried that too much holiday cheer will encourage people to give pets as gift, which is a terrible idea, but Sansa assures her that she’ll instruct all volunteers to alert Brienne or Asha if anyone tries.

So Brienne has Sansa raise the idea at the next staff meeting. Which is basically Brienne, Asha, and Sansa slumped on battered couches, drinking wine and eating something sweet while they go over schedules, budgets, and whatever current crisis is facing them. 

This week Asha’s brought persimmon tarts from the new bakery. They’re amazing.

“I’m Jewish,” Asha says flatly, looking at Sansa.

“Yes, I remember,” Sansa says. “We’ll do a menorah too, I’ve only known you for my entire life.” 

Asha rolls her eyes.

“I mean, we want it to be welcoming here,” Sansa says. “It will make people more likely to want to bring a pet home if it feels cozy and homey.”

“I don’t mind either way,” Brienne says, ignoring the wounded look Sansa gives her. 

“I’m not doing the work,” Asha finally says. Sansa waves the comment away, and then they’re on to discussing the newest batch of blankets Sansa has made as part of the Snuggles project and her idea to get the new yarn shop to promote the charity. 

Brienne and Asha are both on board with that, because the small blankets do seem to bring a lot of comfort to the animals.

Brienne’s mental image of decorations include maybe a small tree on the counter, a menorah as well for Asha, maybe some greenery. (She’s already laid down a no loose tinsel and no poinsettia rule for safety. And because she’s already pulled tinsel out of enough cat butts to last her a good long while.) 

But the shelter has transformed overnight. 

There are shiny tinsel garlands (up high, out of animal reach) and greenery with red bows on any surface they can be hung. Twinkling lights intertwine with most of the boughs, sparkling gently. Sansa has rearranged supplies and managed to put a full size tree in the front reception area. There’s a lovely menorah on the counter next to it, as well, with blue candles in it. 

When Brienne makes the rounds, she finds bows on most of the cages, and more strings of lights everywhere. 

It almost disguises how worn-down the building is, how the paint is chipping and the floors are about ten years past needing replacement. 

“It’s amazing,” Brienne tells Sansa. 

Sansa is busy gluing something together.

“Thanks!” she says brightly. “For ornaments, I’m taking our forever home photos from this year and cutting them into some cute shapes.”

Sansa holds one up, a cutout of a little dog house with a photo of a woman holding a puppy and beaming. 

Brienne tries to remember the last time she decorated for Christmas, and she finds she can’t. Her dad always has a tree and the nativity, so she’s never felt the need to do much for her own apartment. She’s the only one who ever sees it, so why does it matter?

Maybe she should, because there is something special about the way the shelter looks, and it seems to spread through everyone who visits. Brienne can’t say it helps with adoption numbers, not for certain, but it does seem to give everyone a bit more bounce in their step.

Brienne stops by Cregan’s over the weekend. She still feels a little ridiculous putting up decorations just for herself and the cats, but she gets a small tree anyway, one that will fit on the top of the bookshelves, where it will be safe, and some lights and a few inexpensive ornaments. Non-breakable, just in case.

She’s almost to the exit when something catches her eye.

The last time Brienne had an advent wreath was when her mother was alive. The memories are hazy, but Brienne remembers watching her mother light the candles, singing a hymn together, the way her father and mother would lean against each other. How Brienne and Galladon would look forward to it, almost more than the chocolate from their advent calendars. Because it felt so warm and safe.

Brienne doesn’t remember any of the things she’s supposed to do when she lights the first candle, once the first Sunday comes around. She also feels ridiculous singing by herself, so she doesn’t. The wreath has to go up on the top of another bookshelf, near the tree, so Blue doesn’t catch her tail on fire. Again. 

It’s not the same as home. Brienne doesn’t have anyone with her, doesn’t have the husband to curl up on the couch with or the children playing quietly that she’d thought, at five, she would someday have. Before she realized how she looked, how wrong it was, how she’s not meant for that. 

But Brienne has a job that she likes, a business partner who’s maybe becoming something of a best friend, a volunteer leader who seems determined to cheer the entire world up, her father is finally happy, and her cats are curled up around her. 

Her life could be a lot worse. Brienne watches the candle flicker in the dark; and then she remembers what her mother had said about each of the candles representing one element of anticipation for Christmas.

The first Sunday is hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advent is the best.


	13. Everybody Wants To Be A Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime just wants to get his nephew a cat. It shouldn't be this difficult.

Jaime Lannister checks the address of the animal shelter three times when he pulls up. It looks like an abandoned warehouse on the outside, the kind of place he expects to find someone making illicit drug deals in the back corner, nothing at all like the cheerful images of animals finding “forever homes” posted on the website.

The inside, at least, is more promising. The walls are painted bright colors (he recognizes one from the photos) even if he's hit with the smell of cat litter and wet dog as soon as he opens the door. There's a chorus of barking echoing from behind one of the sets of doors and the counter is empty. Jaime rings the bell and hovers awkwardly, not entirely trusting the dingy, threadbare chairs.

Best Friends Furever (and how Jaime gags at the cutesy name) is a non-profit. Jaime knows it is because he gets their letters every year, begging for donations. Wherever that money is being spent, it’s certainly not on decor.

A slight redhead comes out and greets him with a smile. She looks vaguely familiar. Like a Stark. She probably is one. It seems like there’s almost as many of them as there are Freys, not that Jaime knows the family. Not with the way Tywin regards Ned Stark.

"I'm looking for a cat," Jaime says. "It's a Christmas gift for my nephew and –"

"BRIE," the redhead hollers, pleasant smile dropping from her face. "We have another one."

Another one of what, Jaime isn't sure, but he's distracted from wondering about it when the absolute tallest, blondest woman he's ever seen emerges and joins the redhead at the desk.

She's even taller than Jaime is, and he isn't exactly short. The woman also has the most stunning blue eyes and more freckles than Jaime thinks should be possible. Ugly, is his first thought, followed immediately by fascination at the way she strides to the counter and squares her shoulders like she's ready to fight.

"Animals aren't gifts," the woman says shortly, scowling at him. "We're here to find homes for these animals, not send them off to be abandoned again by someone they loved."

"It will have a home," Jaime starts, but she cuts him off again.

"For how long? Until your nephew stops taking care of it? And then his parents get annoyed, and then what?"

Jaime opens his mouth, but the woman just keeps going.

"They don't want to take care of it, they don't want pets or they'd have already adopted a cat, and you just shove one at them. Then they're right back here, dumping the cat on us again, taking up cages and reducing the number of animals we can save. And on top of that, the cat has gotten attached, so now it doesn’t understand where the human it’s come to love is and why it’s not good enough anymore."

The woman is shouting but her eyes are glistening in a way that suggests she's about to cry. Jaime thinks she's taking this all too personally, but he also doesn't think arguing will help his case.

"It will _have_ a home," he says again, and barrels on when the woman opens her mouth. He can play that game, too. "With me. I'm Tommen's legal guardian, so I will be the one taking care of the cat."

The redhead breaks into a smile again at those words, though the tall blonde keeps glaring at him. 

"Animals are a lot of work," she says. "Have you ever even owned a pet?"

"No," Jaime says. "But I don't mind a bit of work."

"Brie," the redhead says softly, looking between them.

Brie snorts.

"They'll claw your sofa," she warns. "And throw up on your fancy rugs and shed all over your expensive clothes."

Jaime isn't even _wearing_ expensive clothes, just jeans and a cashmere sweater, this is just getting ridiculous.

"I'm sorry, do you not want to find these cats a home?" he snaps. "Or are you just sad nobody wants to take _you_ back to their house?"

Brie takes a deep breath and looks like she's about to say something, but the redhead sets a hand on her arm, and the taller woman deflates.

"You'll need to sign," she says, from between gritted teeth. "Saying you'll bring them back to us if you don't want them, not just dump them on the street, and if you return them you won't be allowed to adopt again."

"Fine," Jaime says. He expects her to go back to whatever she was doing before, but she stomps out from behind the counter and leads him through a set of doors.

There are, frankly, a lot more cats than Jaime expected. Racks of metal cages line the walls, three in a column, with at least one cat in each. Some of them have more than one occupant, and the scent of litter is even stronger here. The cage floors are covered in newspaper, though some also have blankets.

Jaime really hopes cat litter doesn’t smell that bad when there isn’t so much of it, but he doesn’t verbalize the thought for risk of provoking another lecture.

Some of the cats are loud, meowing frantically as soon as the door opens, and others cower in the corner of their cages. One particularly energetic animal is climbing the wire door of his cage, flipping around, and coming back down again, wailing dramatically all the while. Another hisses as they walk by.

It's frankly overwhelming. 

Brie leans against the wall, arms crossed, glaring at him. 

Jaime strolls along the line of cages, watching as cats run and hide or stretch their paws out to bat at him as he passes. There are several cages with kittens, where he stops for a while, watching them. Tommen would like kittens, little balls of fluffy fur to grow up along with him.

"Look, Brie," he says, after his third or fourth circuit. 

"Brienne," she interrupts.

" _Brienne_ ," he emphasizes, rolling his eyes. "A little help would be nice."

"It's going to be your cat."

"Seriously, _why_ do you even work here if you don't want to adopt out these animals?"

"I want to adopt them out. Just not to you."

"You don't even know me!" Jaime is almost shouting now. He runs his hands through his hair.

"I know enough," Brienne says mulishly. She jabs her finger at one of the cages. "This cat? Sweet, loving, and she's been brought back here twice. First was because her owner's daughter stopped cleaning the litter box and that was the punishment. Second time, the owner redecorated and the fur didn't match and was easier to see on the new sofa, so back she comes. Just because money buys you whatever you like doesn't mean you get to treat living creatures like that."

"I'm not planning to!"

"Yeah, but have you thought this through? You clearly don't know anything about cats."

"Well, we can't all live in our apartments with seven of them and become spinsters," Jaime says, and is pleased when Brienne flushes a deeper shade of red. She barrels on anyway.

"What are you going to do when it gets sick? Or claws your favorite shirt? Let me guess – you don't know. You just thought about how cute it will be to see your nephew's face on Christmas morning, and everything else will sort itself out."

"What I thought," Jaime says, stalking closer. "Is that my nephew is dealing with the death of his father, his mother being thrown into a mental institution, and he’s spoken about ten words since I took custody three weeks ago. And all of those were to stray cats."

Jaime can't loom over Brienne, not when she's taller than he is, but his anger is still a powerful force. You don’t get raised by Tywin Lannister and not learn how to intimidate people.

Brienne has the grace to look embarrassed, but she doesn't back down from where she's toe to toe with him. 

"What I thought," Jaime continues. "Is that he loves cats more than pretty much anything, and the only time he had one, it disappeared and I'm pretty sure his brother was responsible. But since that brother is now in jail, maybe Tommen can finally get something he wants, for once in his goddamn life."

When Brienne finally speaks again, her voice is more subdued.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she says. It sounds stiff, but sincere, and Jaime inclines his head in acknowledgement. "I just want you to understand how much goes into owning a pet."

"Well, as you pointed out, I'm rich. If the cat claws my shirt or my sofa or anything else, I'll buy a new one. If I get tired of cleaning the litter box, I'll hire a maid. I'm not going to bring the cat back. I could never do something like that to Tommen, not after everything he's been through."

That seems to be enough to convince Brienne, or at least enough for her to ask some questions about Tommen and what he’s like. Jaime tries not to stumble too much as he answers, because certainly this wench of a woman will judge him for not knowing his own family. As if she could have had any idea what it’s like to be a Lannister.

Then Brienne shows Jaime a number of cats and kittens, insisting on bringing them out of their cages for Jaime to hold. Although he really can't tell much difference between them other than furry or more furry, squirmy or less squirmy. 

In the end, he settles on two kittens, because apparently kittens are better behaved in pairs. Brienne is of the opinion that an older cat with an established personality would be better, but Jaime _has_ thought about Tommen's face on Christmas morning and he loves cats so much and the kittens are so cute that Jaime will take the risk. 

They're almost to the door when Jaime's attention is caught by a yellow card on the front of one of the cages, the number 2 scrawled on it in sharpie. None of the other cages have cards, which strikes him as odd.

"Is that how long she's been here? Two days?" he asks.

"No," Brienne sighs heavily. "She's been here for over a year. That's how long she has left until we have to put her to sleep."

Jaime peers into the cage. All he can really see is a pile of black fluff in one corner – he almost misses it at first. 

"Is she sick?"

Brienne stares at him like he's being exceptionally dumb.

"No, but we can't keep animals here forever." She makes a clicking noise, and the cat's head perks up, amber eyes flicking over them both. "She's a sweet girl, but she's lazy and she's already 9 years old. She could have plenty of years left – my oldest cat is 17 and going strong – but most people are more excited about kittens."

Jaime feels guilty, suddenly, about the two playful kittens he's picked out. Tommen will love them, of course, probably more than a lazy cat, but he didn't know they _killed_ animals if they weren't adopted.

“Someone must take older cats,” Jaime says. 

“Some, but not enough.” Brienne scratches the cat’s ears through the bars as it comes to the door to investigate. “And we’re contracted with the county to handle animal control issues, so we have to take all the animals that come in and there’s just not enough space.”

Jaime has never considered any of this before, other than calling the cops if he saw stray dogs running around. He wouldn’t even have come to the shelter if his assistant hadn’t discovered he was planning to drive to the nearest pet shop and had then proceeded to give him a lengthy lecture on adopting pets instead of buying them. 

"I'll take her too," Jaime says impulsively.

Brienne gapes at him. It’s the first animated expression she’s had since she stopped yelling at Jaime initially.

Jaime grins.

It looks like he's going to have three cats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know kill shelters are controversial but I sort of needed it to make Brenna's story work. So, the county Westeros is in has a contract with the shelter Brienne and Asha bought, to handle any animals brought in by animal control. And since they don't have infinite space, they're forced to make some hard choices. Which is often the case in shelters, because no kill rescues have limited space and the remaining shelters are left dealing with the rest. And there's far too many animals that need homes.
> 
> Spay and neuter, people.


	14. I'll Hold Your Hands They're Just Like Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's situation is definitely looking up.

Margaery is busy helping a customer wind yarn when Sansa slips into Rose Garden Yarn and Tea, so Sansa wanders over to a display of elaborate mittens on one of the tables while she waits for Margaery to be free. 

Most of the sample knitting comes from Loras, Margaery’s brother, Sansa has learned. He’s the knitter and owner, who apparently took up knitting in high school after a football injury to his hand. His physical therapist suggested it to help with recovering dexterity in his fingers and Loras got hooked. Sansa doesn’t think she imagined Margaery giving her sly looks when talking about nimble fingers. 

Sansa seems to be developing a habit of stopping by the shop at least once a week, usually more. It’s definitely not good for her yarn budget, but the shop is so cozy. And Margaery always greets her with a smile and usually takes time to sit down and have some tea. And to argue about TV or fashion or critique costumes from movies.

Sansa sifts through the sample mittens for a bit before settling on her favorite couch and pulling Ravelry up on her iPad. She definitely has to add some of the mittens to her queue, and someone has thoughtfully noted the pattern names on the sample tag to make it easier. Probably Margaery. From what Margaery says, Loras can be a bit flighty. 

“New project?” Margaery asks. Sansa hasn’t even noticed her come over, but she’s bearing a tray with a pot of tea, two cups and a fresh lemon bar. 

Sansa can’t help the smile that spreads over her face as she scoots over to make room.

This couch may be her favorite because it’s only just big enough for two people, and Margaery is so close Sansa can feel the warmth radiating from her body. 

“I’m thinking of doing mittens for Christmas,” Sansa says. She adds a pair with guitars to her list. Rickon would definitely like those. He might never wear them, because he seems to think wearing appropriate winter clothing is an affront to his manliness or something, but he’ll appreciate the sentiment.

Sansa hopes Rickon is making progress with his mystery girl. Maybe she’ll be able to smack some sense into him where everyone else has failed.

Margaery’s eyebrows go up as she pours tea. It smells like vanilla, so it must be the Victorian Fog blend that’s becoming Sansa’s favorite. “You don’t have much time,” she says.

“Oh!” Sansa laughs. “Not this Christmas – next year. I’m almost done with this year already, just three more hats.”

“You’re already thinking about next year?” Margaery looks impressed. “That’s hardcore.”

“Well, I have a lot of family.”

“Oh yeah?” Margaery tucks her feet up under her. It puts her closer to Sansa, her head almost resting on Sansa’s shoulder. 

“Well, I have three brothers and a sister,” Sansa starts. “My parents. Two cousins. Five aunts and uncles – well, 7 if my cousin Jon’s parents come back, and we never know until the last minute so I try to be prepared. And my brother Robb’s best friend, he’s basically family. And his sister. And Jon’s a cop, his partner’s family sucks, so he usually celebrates with us, too. And my sister’s boss, he doesn’t have family. Plus friends, my friend Jeyne and Brienne —”

Sansa realizes she’s rambling and snaps her mouth shut. Especially before she can add “and you.” But Margaery is just smiling. 

“That’s a lot of mittens,” Margaery says. “I thought my family was big, but you win.”

“Oh yeah?” Sansa asks.

“Well, I have three brothers,” Margaery says. “And one sister-in-law. Plus my parents and my grandmother. But that’s it. And I definitely don’t knit for them, I’m not that good.”

“I’m sure you are,” Sansa says. 

“I’m really, really not,” Margaery says. “That’s all Loras. But I’ve been playing around with dyeing. I really like working with color, I’m hoping to come up with my own yarns.”

“Oh, that would be amazing,” Sansa says. Margaery has the best sense of style. She manages to look elegant and slightly sultry all the time, even in knitwear, and the way she pulls color together is gorgeous. 

“And you knit for your friends too,” Margaery says. “You’ve known Jeyne and Brienne a while?”

“Oh, I grew up with Jeyne,” Sansa says. “She moved to Yi Ti, but we keep in touch. I just met Brienne a few months ago, but we’re definitely going to be good friends. I can tell.”

“How can you tell that?” Margaery laughs. “If you’ve only known her a few months.”

“I mean, you just can,” Sansa says. She looks at Margaery, the sparkle in her eyes and the way her dark hair falls on her shoulders in waves. “It’s like, a connection. You know? Something sparks.”

“Sounds like dating,” Margaery says. “Maybe you should go out with Brienne.”

Sansa erupts into giggles. 

“Oh god no,” she manages to get out. “Brienne is tragically straight. And honestly, she’s lovely but she has _awful_ taste in men. She’s totally smitten with this rich jerk who came into the animal shelter, even if she won’t admit it. She’s definitely not into women.”

Plus, Sansa prefers petite brunettes to tall blondes, as much as she adores Brienne. Sansa likes being the taller one. 

“ _Brienne_ is straight,” Margaery says. “Interesting.”

Sansa blushes and looks down. She wonders if she’s being too blatant. She doesn’t know if Margaery is queer or not, and it’s not like the haircut is a giveaway anymore, now that undercuts are so trendy. 

Sansa shoves a bite of lemon bar into her mouth, moaning a little at how good it tastes. She could just ask, but Sansa isn’t very good at being the one to make a move. 

Which is probably why she’s in her early 20s and hasn’t dated anyone seriously. (Sansa doesn’t count the brief but disastrous attempt at being straight in college.) Sansa’s only even slept with one woman and that was Asha. It should have been horribly awkward, but somehow wasn’t, thank god, because Asha’s basically family and Sansa has to see her all the time.

It definitely confirmed Sansa’s thoughts about her attraction to pretty, brunette _women_. But there aren’t that many women in Westeros who aren’t straight, and the few that aren’t don’t usually hit on Sansa, probably because she looks pretty straight herself. 

Even Asha hadn’t expected her half-joking flirtation to go anywhere (though she was all too happy to continue when it did) and Asha is, like, the lesbian whisperer. 

“So,” Margaery says, before the silence gets too awkward. “What do you think then, Sansa? Are we going to be friends or something?”

The way she says _something_ is a little loaded, and Margaery’s gaze is intense when Sansa glances over. 

“Or something,” Sansa says, holding her breath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The is she gay or just friendly game is SO MUCH FUN. So much. Along with the 'but you look straight' like okay Karen but I've told you I'm bi like a hundred times already, it's not that hard. 
> 
> Also mittens are great. Ravelry has so many great mittens. Knit All The Mittens!


	15. Call Me Maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany doesn't know how the man is walking around in the snow wearing a tank top. But she's also not complaining.

Dany is pleased with how Dragon’s Egg is coming along. She isn’t stocking any animals, refusing to give any business to puppy mills and breeders when there are so many animals in need of a home. Though she will probably bring in some fish eventually and can obtain reptiles on request. 

Anyone looking for a cat or dog can be directed to the animal shelter. Small mammals and birds have her conflicted, though — they don’t get many at the shelter but Dany has never been comfortable with how those breeders are either, how often those poor creatures linger in pet store cages for their entire lives.

There’s already been a steady supply of customers. In part because Asha and Brienne, in addition to helping her select quality mammal supplies (and suggesting a section for small livestock feed), have agreed to recommend the store on their supply list for new adopters. Dany hadn’t realized how many back to the land hippies lived on the outskirts of Westeros, or how many hobby farms need chicken and goat food.

Still, it’s a new business and Dany finds the days can get dull. Especially when she doesn’t have research or the gnawing fear that she’s not doing enough, not writing enough, not publishing enough nipping at her heels.

Dany is grateful to leave the anxiety behind, but she also isn’t entirely sure how she’s supposed to be without it. 

Maybe she needs a hobby.

Other than her babies. She can’t really bring her reptiles to work, and they aren’t necessarily the most social of pets. 

Dany doesn’t exactly know what she’d do as a hobby. She danced as a child, but she’s not sure if adults do that. There’s all the hiking, of course, one of the things her mother had always talked about missing, the beauty of Westeros, but Dany’s not looking at that until it’s a lot warmer.

Brienne seems to be the only other person in town who recognizes that it’s freezing outside. Everyone else is going outside and strolling around like the temperature is just fine and not so cold your face goes numb.

The bell on the door rings, and Dany straightens up, ready to give a bright smile and welcome to Dragon’s Egg, but the words don’t quite come out right.

“Aren’t you cold in that?” The pitch as she blurts out the question is embarrassingly high. Dany shivers in the cold gust of air from the door, despite the thick sweater she’s wearing. She’s taken Brienne’s advice and layered, but it’s still cold.

She’s definitely not in tropical Mereen anymore.

The man who entered looks at her like she might have gone insane, then down at the tank top he’s wearing with a pair of sweatpants and sneakers 

“I only had to go a few doors,” he offers, then pulls a crumpled up paper from a hidden pocket in the pants.

Men get pockets in _sweatpants_ , Dany can hardly find a pair of jeans with pockets big enough to fit her phone, life is so unfair.

“I’m getting a dog,” the man says. “From the shelter? They gave me this list and said I should come here.”

Dany mentally shelves the concept of wearing a tank top when it’s below freezing and tries to focus on helping her customer. Who is, she notices as she gets close, very tall and very muscled, his long dark hair pulled into a loose braid. 

The man is big, and strong enough to be dangerous, but something around his eyes tells Dany he’s not. At least not in the bad kind of way. 

He quirks an eyebrow at the bags of dog food still on a pallet where they were delivered. The smaller ones are shelved neatly, but Dany had underestimated how awkward a floppy, 50 pound bag of food would be to store and she hasn’t found anyone to hire for a quick help. Asha has promised her brother, once he gets done with this month’s round of court mandated community service.

Dany didn’t feel it was prudent to ask too many questions. 

“So you live nearby,” Dany says, as the man contemplates the row of food bowls. He’s strolling through the store like he has all the time in the world. In his tank top. In winter. 

His biceps are roughly the size of Dany’s thighs.

“Huh?” He picks a large blue bowl and a matching, larger water bowl. 

“You said it was just a few doors down.” Dany pauses. “If you’re in the condos, you’ll need to walk the dog often, with no yard.”

“Oh, my gym.” The man is flipping through the collars now, frowning at them. “That’s a few doors down. Not my house.”

“Oh, good,” Dany says, somewhat nonsensically. 

“My house has plenty of yard. Great acreage here.” 

The man is very good looking, his dark beard somehow working _very well_ against his brown skin. It makes Dany think of polished metal, he’s almost glowing under the terrible fluorescent lights, she notices, as he goes through the rest of the list, and then stops at the food and selects one of the 50 pound bags. He slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.

His muscles flex impressively, the tank top giving Dany an excellent view. 

“I could give you a hand with these,” he says, and Dany agrees before she can consider it’s probably not the best customer service. 

Within 20 minutes, the large bags of food are stacked neatly on the shelves, the man hasn’t even broken a sweat and Dany thinks she might need to go home and change her underwear. 

Dany gets his name — Drogo Khal — from his credit card as she rings him up. 

“We’re thinking of offering dog training classes,” she blurts out. She’s been thinking of no such thing. “I can get your number for our list, for when they get started. If you’d like to be informed.”

Drogo gives an easy nod. His entire mode of being seems to be utterly relaxed, so entirely opposite from Dany’s jittery nerves. 

He scrawls his name and number on the paper Dany manages to locate. It looks like an invoice. It’s probably not that important. 

“Or you could stop by the gym,” Drogo says. “Can’t miss us.” 

Dany stares at the door after he leaves, another blast of cold air hitting her in the face. 

Now she has to find a dog trainer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany is hot for Drogo and who can blame her?


	16. Brown Paper Packages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne doesn't expect a gift from her lead volunteer.

Brienne looks up from her paperwork when Sansa says her name, mind still half on the budget numbers for the animal shelter which are more dismal than she and Asha had thought. 

Apparently the Manderlys had been bankrolling a lot of the operation with their trust fund and savings, which is not a luxury Brienne or Asha has. They’re going to have to raise a lot of funds to keep things going, even though they’re rolling most of the profits from the vet clinic into the shelter. 

Fundraising is one of Brienne’s least favorite things. She’d had to do some of it when she was on the board for the animal shelter back in Tarth, but at least then, most of the work had fallen on the owners.

Now, though, Brienne is the co-owner, and neither she nor Asha are skilled at charming people into opening their checkbooks. 

Sansa is bouncing on the balls of her feet in front of Brienne’s desk, a gift bag clutched in her hands.

“I know it’s early,” Sansa continues. “But I thought you could use it now.”

“Sansa, you didn’t have to get me anything.” Brienne flounders, feeling out of her depth. 

She can’t remember the last time she received a gift from anyone other than her family. Maybe Asha? When they were in school? And Sansa is, well, not her employee but certainly under her direction as a volunteer. Are there ethics about that?

Although, if Brienne is honest, Sansa is practically a co-owner along with Brienne and Asha, for all the work she puts in. Brienne isn’t exactly sure how that works with the full time job she knows Sansa has, but Sansa just waves her off and tells her not to worry about it.

“I know, but I wanted to.” Sansa pushes the gift bag towards Brienne. “It’s been so great working with you and Asha. I mean, I know Asha of course, but I really admire the work you’re doing here, and I’m so glad you moved to Westeros.”

Brienne can feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

It’s the sort of thing that feels like a joke, that probably would be a joke, but Sansa is so earnest and helpful that it can’t be.

Sansa is looking over at Brienne expectantly, so Brienne carefully pulls out the tissue paper and unwraps the gift inside.

It’s a hat and a pair of mittens, in a shade of blue that’s pure and reminds Brienne of the ocean. She can tell, just from looking at them, that they’re warmer than the grey hat and cheap gloves she’s been wearing since winter started. The material is much thicker and softer, and they’re prettier than anything Brienne would have bought for herself, but they aren’t fussy either. No bows or frills.

“I didn’t have time to make them myself,” Sansa says, like that’s a failing. “But they’re good wool, they’ll be much warmer than what you have.” 

“Thank you,” Brienne says. She stares down again, not sure what to say. “I don’t —”

Sansa waves her off.

“I don’t expect anything. I know it’s hard to move to a new place, and not know anyone.”

Brienne dimly remembers Sansa telling her about spending a few years in the city, for university, before coming back home. 

There’s a lot Sansa hasn’t said about that time, and Brienne thinks it didn’t go very well. 

“I appreciate it, but you don’t need to worry.” Brienne tries to look reassuring. “I’m used to being alone.”

That’s the wrong thing to say, because Sansa looks devastated. Brienne knows the Stark family is large — in Asha’s words, enormous — and Sansa has lived in Westeros most of her life. And, unlike Brienne, Sansa probably had lots of friends in school. She probably doesn’t know what it’s like to find solitude a blessing, an escape from the cruelties of the world.

“Any updates?” Brienne asks, in an attempt to turn the conversation back to work.

Sansa still looks wounded, but she follows the subject change.

“Snark and Grumpkin are ready to go in for their spay and neuter,” Sansa says. “They hit the two pound mark.” 

Brienne can’t stop the frown that crosses her face.

“I still don’t know about that,” she says. Why did she cave to the rich man and his demand for cats? Just because he had a sob story. Lots of people have sob stories. Brienne doesn’t even know if he’s telling the truth! He could have made the entire thing about his nephew’s hard life up.

“He already signed the paperwork,” Sansa reminds her.

“We have a no gift policy,” Brienne reminds her. “I never should have let myself be swayed by someone like him.”

“If it’s his home, it’s not really a gift.” Sansa has said this several times before, but Brienne has her doubts. 

“Men like him think they can just get away with anything,” Brienne grumbles. “Just because someone is handsome and rich and smiles like … like a god, that doesn’t mean they can get what they want.”

“I thought he made a good case for taking care of them,” Sansa says. She’d practically been in tears after Brienne had told her about the conversation regarding the man’s nephew. 

“That’s because he charmed you,” Brienne argues.

“He really didn’t.” Sansa crosses her arms. “I can assure you that even the most handsome man holds no interest for me.”

Being surrounded by lesbians has it’s good points — for some reason, they always seem to find Brienne less ugly than the rest of the world and treat her accordingly — but it can also be very frustrating. 

“I’m telling you, he’s after something,” Brienne says. “Just wait.”

“I will,” Sansa says, with a knowing look Brienne that doesn’t trust on her face. “But I think it’ll be fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is like I am here to aggressively be your friend until you understand I mean it. In a nice way.


	17. Girls Who've Ever Had A Broken Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa decides Brienne needs a new hobby.

Sansa is gathering her things from the front desk of the shelter while Brienne flips through some adoption forms when the younger girl suddenly stops and turns.

“Come with me,” she says.

Brienne tries to remember where Sansa said she was going, and why on earth she would want Brienne to come.

“To the yarn shop,” Sansa continues. 

“I don’t knit,” Brienne says. She makes a note on one of the forms, regarding the possibility of issues with the adopter’s existing pets. They don’t usually accept animals being returned without penalty, but this is a case where they may need to. Brienne’s seen the adopter’s pets at the clinic, they’re very well cared for and Brienne knows the family will do everything possible to make an adoption work.

“You should learn!” Sansa says brightly. “I can show you, it’s very relaxing.”

Brienne has never been good at what her great-aunt termed the womanly arts, and she doubts knitting will be any different. Besides, Brienne is already a stereotype of a single woman over thirty, what with having five cats and virtually no life outside of work. Adding knitting to that just seems like the icing on the cake. 

But Sansa is already packing up the things on Brienne’s desk and holding Brienne’s coat out for her. 

“And you can meet Margaery,” Sansa says, with a small, dreamy smile. 

Brienne doesn’t think she’s going to be able to win this argument. She should have known something was up when Sansa dropped their conversation about loneliness earlier in the day. It was far too easy to move her on to another subject. Brienne should have figured Sansa would be planning something to try to get Brienne to socialize.

For some reason, Sansa seems convinced that people will want to hang out with Brienne. And Brienne doesn’t know how to correct her. 

It’s very tempting to drive home instead of following Sansa downtown but Brienne _did_ agree to come (sort of) and she can’t break a promise.

The store is as cute as Sansa has described. It’s the kind of place that makes Brienne feel even more lumbering and odd than usual. This is a place for delicate women who sip tea out of china cups and perch decoratively on sofas. Brienne is neither delicate nor decorative.

Brienne hangs her coat on the rack by the door and takes a look around. For all the awkwardness she feels, she has to admire the colorful displays. Piles of yarn in bright and rich colors are all over, as well as samples of knitted items. They range from plain but soft scarves and hats to sweaters that Brienne thinks couldn’t possibly be made by hand, with intricately colored designs.

Sansa is making a beeline for the back of the shop, where she exchanges a slightly too long hug with the brunette woman working behind the counter. Brienne assumes it’s Margaery, considering the way they’re both smiling besottedly at each other. 

Brienne notices that Sansa grabs Margaery’s hand to pull her over and doesn’t let go. Margaery, for her part, seems to be perfectly fine with it.

“This is Brienne,” Sansa says. “My friend. Brienne this is Margaery.”

Brienne startles a little. Are they friends? She enjoys talking to Sansa when Sansa comes to volunteer but is that friendship? She doesn’t really know anything about the woman, only that she works at her parents’ department store, volunteers at the shelter, knits, and has a huge crush on the woman from the yarn store. And a disturbing fixation with making everyone around her be social.

Margaery is smiling sweetly, though, holding out a hand to shake.

“Sansa has told me about you!” Margaery exclaims. ”I’m so glad you came in.”

“Brienne is going to learn to knit,” Sansa announces. Either forgetting or ignoring the part where Brienne hasn’t agreed to that part, only to coming and seeing the shop.

Margaery seems to think it’s a great idea, though, and Sansa insists on having Brienne pick out a skein of yarn to learn. As far as Brienne’s concerned, she can work with whatever Sansa choses, but apparently it’s important for Brienne to pick the yarn. After touching it and comparing colors, of course.

Sansa leads Brienne through the store, dismissing some shelves entirely — “That’s sock yarn, it’s way too thin for a beginner” — and giving a running commentary about the properties of different materials. Brienne always thought yarn was just yarn, but apparently there’s a wide variety, from wool to cotton to strange things like banana fiber. Also, it seems there are many different types of wool, which are not all the same. 

Eventually Brienne settles, with Sansa’s approval, on some soft blue yarn. It’s the right weight, according to Sansa, not too big or small and she grabs a pair of needles as well. Brienne wasn’t aware yarn had weights, but nods obligingly. 

“You can make a scarf,” Sansa decides. “They’re easy, and it’s lots of practice.”

Somehow, Sansa convinces Brienne to add a special bag to hold her scarf, one of the less cutesy ones available, a nice cream fabric printed with realistic birds, as well as a smaller bag to hold the tiny scissors, measuring tape, and blunted needles Sansa says Brienne also needs. 

Sansa, Brienne is learning, is like a deceptively delicate hurricane.

Once Brienne has handed over a truly shocking amount of money for the supplies, they settle on the sofa. Sansa starts doing something with the yarn to get it onto the needle, fingers moving lightning fast, while Margaery comes over with a tray full of tea and lemon squares. 

“Sansa’s favorite,” Margaery says, handing Brienne a lemon bar.

When Brienne takes a bite, she can see why. She’s not as obsessed with lemons as Sansa is, but the lemon bar is the perfect balance of tart and sweet, the shortbread base buttery and crumbly. 

“Now, I’ve cast on for you,” Sansa says. “Because it’ll be easier to learn once you know the knit stitch.” She hands the needles over to Brienne, adjusting them in Brienne’s hand as she explains the correct way to hold them and how to create a stitch.

There’s not enough room on the sofa for three, not really, but Sansa and Margaery seem to be really enjoying having to squish together. Margaery casually drapes her arm on the back behind Sansa and toys with Sansa’s red hair occasionally in a move that is so easy Brienne feels envious.

Not that Brienne wants to flirt with Sansa, but she could never imagine being so casually affectionate with anyone. Even sitting this close to Sansa, who she isn’t interested in romantically at all, makes her feel like she’s overstepping her bounds.

Brienne is struggling with her first row of stitches, fingers feeling huge and ungainly (something Sansa assures her is normal for new knitters, not a result of Brienne’s mannish hands) when Sansa looks over slyly.

“So, let’s talk about your crush on the cute, rich, cat guy.”

Brienne sputters.

“I do not have – Sansa, what are you talking about!”

“You’ve been ranting about him for days,” Sansa says. “You were ranting about him earlier today, in fact.”

“Because he’s arrogant, and he thinks he can get what he wants because he’s rich,” Brienne says, feeling a familiar tightening in her stomach. Something about the man — Jaime Lannister, she recalls from the paperwork — sets her on edge. 

“And handsome,” Sansa says. “You keep mentioning his smile being used to get things.”

“He’s objectively good-looking,” Brienne says. “Men like that know it, and know they can get what they want, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Margaery looks intrigued. “Who’s this?”

Sansa explains the situation, the visit from the man with his terrible idea to give cats to a child, and Brienne fills in her interactions. 

Margaery nods when Brienne mentions his name.

“Oh, Jaime,” she says. “Well, he’s one of the better Lannisters. And he’s taking in Cersei’s kids, so he’s probably a little overwhelmed.”

“That’s Cersei’s brother?” Sansa asks, sounding stunned. “He seems so normal.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” Margaery points out. 

“Cersei is — was — the biggest bitch in Westeros,” Sansa says. “She used to come into the store and throw fits constantly to get anything she wanted.”

“And then she murdered her husband,” Margaery says, almost gleefully.

“Thank god you won’t have to deal with her,” Sansa tells Brienne. 

“It doesn’t matter if he’s better,” Brienne says. From what she’s hearing, Margaery’s correct in saying the bar is very low. “Although I hope that means the cats will be okay.”

Brienne scowls at the yarn in her hand, aggressively shoving a needle tip through the loop of blue on her left needle. 

“Cersei is awful,” Sansa says. “God, that woman. But if Jaime’s taking those kids, it’s no wonder he wants to get them kittens. Probably the first soft and cuddly thing they’ve owned.”

“You could do worse than going out with Jaime,” Margaery says. 

“I do not want to go out with Jaime,” Brienne says firmly. As if that were even a possibility. Brienne knows how she looks. She knows how Jaime looks. She has eyes. 

“Okay,” Sansa says, returning her focus to her own project, which is knit with what appears to be thread on needles the size of toothpicks. “When does he pick the cats up, again?”

“December 16th,” Brienne says automatically, and ignores the smirk on Sansa’s face as she realizes Brienne has the date on the tip of her tongue.

It’s all irrelevant, anyway. Jaime Lannister will pick up his cats and Brienne will never see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, banana fiber yarn is real. Along with milk fiber yarn. And yarn made with stainless steel.
> 
> If you go into a yarn shop and don't pet the yarn, I'm not sure you're really human.


	18. Let It Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has never been in a snowball fight before.

Brienne barely has time to grab her coat and new hat and gloves (which _are_ much warmer than her old pair) when Sansa drags her out from the shelter. It’s the middle of the morning, and Brienne’s protests are completely ignored.

“It’s the first December snow!” Sansa says, beaming as she tugs Brienne towards the town square. Brienne tries to remember if they locked the door behind them.

It’s snowed several times already, so Brienne isn’t sure what’s so special about it. At first, she’d been entranced by it, seeing snowflakes falling from the sky and the pure blanket of white on the ground.

That’s given way to a surge of annoyance at the sight, because it means scraping snow off her car, shoveling a path out of the parking lot that never gets done by management even though it’s supposed to, and driving with white knuckles on slick roads. 

“It’s tradition,” Sansa says. “First snow of December means one thing — a snowball fight. _The_ snowball fight.”

“I’m busy.” Brienne says. “Somebody needs to be at the shelter in case someone comes in.”

Sansa laughs. “Nobody will.”

Brienne can see why when they reach the square. It seems like the entire town has turned out, gathering in a massive mob. She sees her father and Pod, the counter boy he’s hired at Evenfall’s, the grumpy-looking mechanic who fixed her car, and even Father Meribald, his clerical collar peeking out from under his snow jacket. Even the plump, older, bank manager who Brienne’s seen handling unruly patrons with a firm tone is out in a very shiny gold jacket. 

It’s chaotic and Brienne already feels in over her head. Don’t these people have jobs? She knows these people have jobs, where they’re expected to be. _Brienne_ has a job where she’s expected to be.

“A snowball fight?” Brienne asks. 

“Town tradition since,” Sansa cocks her head. “Oh, I don’t know. At least fifty years. My parents talk about it happening when they were kids.”

“And …” Brienne starts.

“Everyone turns out for a big snowball fight,” Sansa explains. “First snowfall in December. No excuses. There used to be a prize for the winner, but it’s actually kind of hard to determine who that is, so now it’s just the last ten or so standing and they get free hot chocolate at Wildling’s. And pride.”

“I’ve never been part of a snowball fight,” Brienne tells Sansa, who is using her elbows to get both of them closer to the center of the square.

Brienne must be cursed by the worst timing ever, because as soon as the words leave her mouth, the man beside her turns.

“What do you mean, you’ve never had a snowball fight?” It’s the arrogant, handsome man who wants Christmas kittens. Jaime Lannister. He looks like he’s never heard a more ridiculous thing in his life.

Brienne glares.

“I’m from Tarth, we don’t have snow,” she says, attempting to sound bored. She doesn’t think she succeeds. 

“Didn’t you go skiing or something?” Jaime looks her over. “Snowboarding?”

“No,” Brienne snaps. “We aren’t all raised with silver spoons in our mouths.” 

She tries to move forward again, but Sansa seems suddenly rooted to the spot. 

“Well, then this is even more exciting!” Sansa is grinning broadly. “Right?”

“Or embarrassing,” Brienne mutters.

“Everyone is new at things at some point,” Sansa says. “It’s neat. It’ll be like experiencing it for the first time again, through you. I don’t even remember my first snowball fight.”

Jaime is looking over at them with undisguised curiosity.

“Well, you’ve got the arms of a warrior, you’ll probably be great at it,” he says to Brienne. “It’s not hard.”

There’s a hint of mocking in his voice which makes Brienne scowl even more.

She doesn’t get a chance to respond, though, because Mayor Arryn is standing up and announcing the official rules and then shouting “begin” only to get hit with a volley of snowballs before he can jump down from the bench he’s standing on.

Then it really is chaos. Brienne tries to keep up with people who are gathering and packing snowballs in seconds, hurling them at whoever is nearest. Whatever ideas Brienne might have had in her head, they certainly didn’t include this level of competitiveness.

Sansa is vicious, and nobody in her path is safe. Even Brienne, who gets nailed in the shoulder with a surprising degree of force. Brienne finds herself taking cover behind a tree, watching as even normally sensible people lose their mind.

Judge Tully is lobbing snowballs from the steps of the courthouse, while Mother Donyese and SIster Mordane seem to have some kind of coordinated battle plan. The school has come out too, the children obviously enjoying it. Brienne spots her neighbor dashing around in the fray despite wearing a skirt and tights along with her usual pastel winter attire. Little old Sister Unella is there too, leaning on her walker and slowly tossing snowballs that other people make for her.

Asha is running along with her brother, both of them shouting some sort of battle cry, while Sansa is picked up by a very large, very tattooed man who uses her as a human shield.

Brienne considers intervening, but Sansa is laughing even as she tries to kick him in the shins, so Brienne thinks it’s probably okay. 

Even the town police are there. Serious Chief Selmy is directing his officers with shouted orders, only half of which seem to be obeyed. 

Brienne sees a crowd of men in suits and women in stylish business dresses making what looks like a fort to hide behind, only to be ambushed from behind by some teenagers.

The town librarian sprints past with an armful of snow, his wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose as he launches a surprise attack on the owner of Wildlings. 

Hiding behind a tree is definitely a good idea, because it mostly keeps Brienne out of the fray. But she makes the mistake of not paying attention to her surroundings, she’s so busy watching the insanity happening in front of her, and she misses someone sneaking up behind her. She's watching Sansa when Brienne feels an armful of snow get dumped down the back of her jacket and screams in shock.

Jaime is doubled over laughing when she turns around. 

“I didn’t think your voice would get that high,” he manages to get out. “That’s fantastic.”

“That’s against the rules,” Brienne informs him, scowling as she tries to shake the icy cold from her back. Her sweater is going to be soaked. 

Jaime just laughs harder. 

“What other sounds can you make?” He picks up another handful of snow. “This is very intriguing.” 

Jaime has a strange look in his eye as he says it, and Brienne feels herself turning red. She’s so tired of being mocked by men. Jaime, oblivious to her ire, continues to tease and tries to get another handful of snow down her collar.

Shoving a handful of snow directly in his smug face is, as it turns out, extremely satisfying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is certainly not thinking about Brienne making noises in other situations. Definitely not.


	19. Sure Do Like Those Christmas Cookies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is trying to cram as many traditions into Christmas as possible. Tyrion thinks he might be going overboard.

"You know, we won't have any cookies if you keep eating the dough." Tyrion glares at Jaime, whose cheeks are bulging with ginger molasses batter.

Tommen drops his spoon in the bowl, looking guilty. Myrcella rolls her eyes and leans against the counter. Jaime looks completely unrepentant.

"You're not supposed to eat dough," Myrcella says. "Raw eggs have, like, salmonella."

Jaime shrugs. "It'll be fine."

"It'll be better as cookies." Tyrion gives the batter another stir. It smells deliciously spicy and sweet. "Myrcella, get the cookie scoop."

Myrcella gives another eye roll, but digs in the bag of stuff Tyrion has hauled over and produces the requested utensil. 

"This is stupid," she says. 

Jaime frowns. "You like cookies. Everybody likes cookies."

"A minute on the lips, forever on the hips," Myrcella says, and Tyrion winces. It’s only a second, but suddenly he sees Cersei standing in front of him, not his niece. Tyrion blinks and tries to clear his head. Myrcella may look like her mother, but she’s sweeter and more thoughtful than Cersei’s ever been.

"Do not listen to your mother about that," Jaime tells Myrcella. "You're a growing kid, you don't need to worry about what you eat."

"Although vegetables are, on occasion, a good idea for overall health." Tyrion can't help giving Jaime a pointed look as he says it.

"We had mushrooms and spinach on our pizza just last night," Jaime mutters.

Tyrion lines a cookie sheet with parchment paper and starts guiding Tommen through how to scoop up a ball of dough, roll it in sugar, and then place it on the tray.

"You got it?" 

Tommen nods solemnly.

"All right, Myrcy."

The girl doesn't look up from her phone. Tyrion can feel the headache starting somewhere behind his left eye. He doesn’t know why he agreed to this. 

Yes he does. Jaime had been so eager and hopeful about the idea and Tyrion hasn’t seen his brother look actually happy in years. He just seems to kind of drift through everything on autopilot. 

"Do you want to cut the shortbread or ice the sugarplum stars?" Tyrion asks.

"Whatever." 

Jaime plucks the phone from the girl's hand. Myrcella makes a squawking noise.

"This is stupid," Myrcella says again. "Why are we doing this?"

"Because it's Christmas and this is what families do." Jaime sounds like he's barely keeping hold of his temper, but Tyrion can hear the disappointment in his brother's voice. It makes Tyrion’s heart ache a little, even though he told Jaime this was probably going to happen.

"Not our family." Myrcella pokes at the cooling stars. "I'll do these. If I have to."

"Our family hasn't done so well at being a family," Jaime says. "But we can do better."

"Plus there's sugar." Tyrion isn't quite as bitter as Myrcella but he privately agrees that Jaime's going a little bit overboard with the family togetherness.

Then again, Jaime spent a lot of their childhood engrossed and TV shows and movies showing loving, happy families while Tyrion preferred to escape into books about history and myth. Tyrion remembers a younger Jaime trying so hard to get his siblings and father to mimic the things he saw on TV, and the crushed look on his face when it didn’t work.

Tyrion wonders if that's why Cersei’d had Jaime under her thumb for so long. Jaime had spent most of his life doing exactly as their sister ordered. He dated whoever Cersei picked (with terrible results), wore the clothes she chose, socialized with the people she liked. Even the apartment is decorated with things Cersei picked out, all sleek minimalism and discomfort.

Tyrion still doesn't know what made Jaime finally give up on their sister. Tyrion suspects it might have been Cersei’s deeper descent into alcoholism or the way she’d started blaming her own children for everything, the same way she’d blamed Tyrion all through childhood. 

Her children except Joffrey, of course.

At any rate, Tyrion is glad Jaime has moved on from clinging to Cersei in the name of family, even if it does mean baking cookies with a silent eight-year-old and a surly twelve-year-old.

Tyrion thinks they should send Tommen to a psychiatrist. Jaime wants to wait and see if he will talk on his own, and not send him until he can agree to it. 

Jaime puts on holiday music — and Tyrion will shoot someone if he hears that damn Chipmunk song, he really will — and insists on making far too many cookies. Tommen manages a few small smiles, though he doesn’t speak. He, at least, seems to be enjoying himself. And even Myrcy loses her frown at some point, though she still rolls her eyes an awful lot. Jaime sings along, badly, with the music, 

By the end, though, they have tins full of ginger molasses cookies, sugarplum stars, cranberry orange shortbread, and rum fudge cakes. Jaime’s kitchen looks like a powdered sugar factory exploded, and Tyrion’s pretty sure Myrcy has somehow gotten chocolate batter in her hair, but Jaime is smiling bigger than Tyrion can remember. 

For a few hours of frustration, it’s not a bad result.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookies! I've made the [gingerbread molasses cookies](https://www.gimmesomeoven.com/chewy-ginger-molasses-cookies/d), [orange shortbread cookies](https://www.momontimeout.com/cranberry-orange-shortbread-cookies-recipe/), and [rum fudge cakes](https://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/rum-fudge-cakes). For best results add more rum than called for. Just like ... a good whack. 
> 
> The full [sugarplum shortbread stars](https://hoosierhomemade.com/sugar-plum-shortbread-cookies-holiday-inspiration/) recipe seems to have vanished but this blog has photos and I think it could be reverse-engineered fairly easily.


	20. Word Of Good Cheer From Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missandei doesn't look forward to the annual school concert.

Missandei Naath loves the holidays. She loves the cheer and the presents and the excited faces of her students. 

She does not love the holiday show at Westeros elementary.

First of all, to call it a holiday show is misleading. It’s a Christmas show with “Dreidel Dreidel Dreidel” shoved in for half a song before transitioning back to Santa and Jesus.

Missy isn’t even Jewish and she finds that offensive. 

Oh, and there’s the half a verse of a Kwanzaa song that old Sister Eglantine had added when Missy got hired. Missy tries to appreciate that in the spirit it was intended, even though her family doesn’t celebrate Kwanzaa. Not that anyone asked.

Missy is glad that Sister Eglantine retired, and she’s heard good things about the new music teacher, who she’s met only briefly, but she’s not terribly optimistic about anything changing. Sister Mordane embraces change at roughly the same rate as continental drift.

Missy already has the damn Dreidel song stuck in her head as she closes up her classroom and heads over to the music room. She waves at Shireen through the window, where the other woman is supervising the run around and snack break the kids get before rehearsal. 

Grey Nudho, the new music teacher, is more relaxed than he’d been the first time they met. He’s also somehow getting away with wearing sneakers, which makes Missy frown. 

Somehow she and Shireen are held to much stricter dress code standards than Tormund, who teaches gym, and apparently Grey. 

“Rehearsal isn't that bad,” Grey says, and Missy realizes she’s been silently glaring.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just thinking about something else.”

There’s no time to get into her rant about the patriarchy, not if they’re going to get rehearsal going. Plus, it always leads to the rant on intersectional feminism, which is even longer. 

“I’m thinking we’ll try something different,” Grey says. He hands over a folder, filled with sheet music. He has very nice eyes. “Actually make it a winter show. And I wanted to get your opinion on a couple of other possibilities.” 

“Has Sister Mordane seen this?”

Missy rifles through the folder. There’s Frosty the Snowman, which she could personally live without, Let It Snow, Sleigh Ride, Jingle Bells, Winter Wonderland. And one song she doesn’t recognize.

“It’s an old version of Holly and the Ivy,” Grey explains. He must have noticed her confusion. “It’s more pagan, really, no mentions of Jesus or God. It’s lovely.” 

It’s also asking a lot of children aged five to eleven, based on the sheet music. But Missy’s heard the kids rave about Mr. Nudho all year, and she can’t help wondering if it’s because he doesn’t infantalize them like Sister Eglantine did. 

“I’m planning on letting the Sister know after we’ve rehearsed,” Grey says. He gives a small grin. “I mean, we can’t make the kids learn an entirely new show so late, can we?”

“I love you.” It slips out before Missy can stop herself.

Luckily, Grey just laughs. It makes the corners of his eyes crinkle in a very pleasing fashion.

“The last program was really bad,” he agrees. 

“What did you want my opinion on?” 

“I’m thinking of adding a newer song,” Grey says. He passes a new piece of music over.

“I love Winter Song,” Missy says. It’s also complicated and maybe a little bit bittersweet for kids, but then again, Baby, It’s Cold Outside had been in the old program. 

Missy had spent a full two hours trying to explain why the song was problematic overall but especially for kids. 

She’d failed.

“I’m also thinking of adjusting how we perform,” Grey continues. “It’s asking a lot for the little ones to do the full show, so I’m thinking we’ll have the entire school for Frosty and Winter Wonderland, maybe Let It Snow. Then let the youngest class go, and keep the middle classes for everything but Winter Song and The Holly and The Ivy, which will just be Mordane’s class.” 

That will certainly make the more complicated songs go over better, and he’s not wrong about the attention span of the littlest ones. Most holiday shows end with the front two rows squirming and trying to wander off. One year, a child had actually fallen asleep mid-concert and fallen off the risers, creating a domino effect of falling kids. 

“Worth a try,” Missy says.

Grey smiles at her again, he really does have a very lovely smile, Missy notices. She takes her place as accompanist, thankful she only has to do so in rehearsals. Playing in public isn’t her favorite, but it’s too difficult for any teacher to play and teach a gaggle of children new songs at the same time, especially while also arranging them for stage. 

The kids are as on board with the new ideas as Missy is, and the older ones actually cheer when they get the new folders. Everyone manages to get through the program a few times before the parents arrive and the kids don’t sound half bad for a first rehearsal. Grey must have been doing a lot in class to get them comfortable singing more complex music.

Grey also swears them all to secrecy, saying the program is going to be a surprise for their families. And doesn’t mention that Tommen Baratheon isn’t singing at all, just standing there clutching the stuffed cat he carries everywhere.

Tommen has been a mess since everything with his parents, and Missy is becoming concerned that he’s still not speaking.

The boy’s uncle assures her that the doctors say it will pass with time, but he’d looked as stressed about it as Missy feels. 

The parents come and collect the kids, Tommen’s uncle giving Missy a hopeful look and then sighing as she shakes her head. It takes far too long for the room to clear out and Missy is starving.

But there’s still work to do.

She and Grey work out a schedule for rehearsals, tossing costume ideas back and forth, since Grey is also rejecting the collection of antler headbands and Santa hats. 

“It can’t cost money,” Missy says. “Or not much.”

“There’s always making things,” Grey says.

Missy can’t help laughing. “Not me. Not if you want it to look good. Shireen will tell you, I’m a menace to craft projects.”

“You’re an elementary school teacher, you can’t be that bad.” Grey is looking at her like he’s trying to decipher something. 

“Macaroni necklaces and milk carton gingerbread houses are about my limit.” Missy shakes her head. “I’m serious.”

Grey makes a face at her. It doesn’t make him look any less cute. 

“Could we ask them all to wear the same thing?” he ponders.

“Only if it’s something they’ll already have. I’ve got some kids who definitely can’t afford anything new.” 

“Winter hats and sweaters, maybe,” Grey says. “Specific colors? Oh — all white. Snowmen.”

“Snowmen?” Missy tries to follow. 

“For the little ones. We can do construction paper buttons and noses, it can be a project for them to make in class.” Grey is picking up momentum. “And I can make the hats.” 

“That would be cute,” Missy admits. She’ll lay ten bucks on someone poking someone else in the eye with a carrot nose, though. “Snowflakes maybe… no, that’s too hard.”

“No it’s not.” Grey gets a gleam in his eye. “Sweaters and hats, winter gear. And the oldest kids can wear all blue. We’ll get them LED candles, I can buy them if I have to. And we’ll cut out fabric snowflakes for the middle ones to pin on the sweaters.”

“You’ll cut out snowflakes, you mean.”

“No, we.” Grey gives her a charming smile. Missy hates that she already knows she’ll give into it. “Come on Missy, you can’t leave me in this all alone. It’s our winter rebellion show.”

The way Grey says her name makes Missy feel a little breathless. So does the word ‘our’. She’s definitely going to cave.

“Sister Mordane is going to hate it,” Missy says. “Let’s make it happen.”


	21. She Makes A Woman Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finally gets some good intel on Margaery.

“I think I’m going to make a sweater,” Sansa says. She holds one of the skeins she’s been examining to her face, then the inside of her wrist. She needs to find the perfect balance of soft and firmly spun. She wants the sweater to be comfortable to wear, but she also doesn’t want it to pill just from looking at it.

“Will it finally be for you?” Margaery asks.

“I knit for me.” Sansa does! Honestly! Once in a while... It’s just that her family is so big and there’s so many people to make things for.

“You can be selfish,” Margaery says. She’s got a little half-smile on her face when she says it, though, so she’s probably not actually upset.

Some knitters get irrationally angry about gift knitting, even if they aren’t the ones doing it. Sansa thinks it’s strange. Why get mad because somebody else is knitting gifts? She doesn’t care if other knitters choose not to knit for their family and friends. 

“I like knitting for people.” Sansa strokes the yarn thinking about colors. Maybe she’ll find a good pink. It’s so hard to wear pink as a redhead, but she does love it. It’s a little unfair sometimes. Arya looks amazing in pink but she hates it and refuses to wear it unless forced.

“You just deserve nice things too,” Margaery says stubbornly. 

Sansa feels a blush come to her cheeks. She needs to be realistic, though. She thinks Margaery has been flirting, but there’s no guarantee. Although Margaery _had_ made that comment about Sansa referring to Brienne as straight. 

Sansa always has such a hard time telling if women are flirting or just being friendly. And she’s not as good at getting to the point as Asha.

Although looking at a woman and saying “you’re hot, get your pants off” is maybe not Sansa’s style anyway.

It does seem to work for Asha, though.

Sansa takes her selection of yarn to one of the couches, piling it in different combinations to see the colors. Margaery trails after, sometimes picking a skein out and swapping it with another. 

“So, how did you learn to knit? Your brother?” Sansa wonders why Margaery is here, sometimes, instead of at the corporate offices of her family’s grocery store. Especially when she’s not as much a knitter as a sewist.

Is pink and green too overdone? Sansa really can’t decide, there are so many color combinations that look good. Maybe if she changes up the intensity. Mint green with vibrant pink, or a light rose pink with lime. Or she could shift one color slightly. Magenta and lime. Pale pink with a light teal. 

Sansa’s really feeling pastels right now, though. She always likes that palette for the end of winter and the start of spring.

“Loras? Oh god, no, he’d have killed me out of frustration.” Margaery laughs a little. “We get along great but teaching each other things is not what we’re good at.”

“It’s nice that you’re close,” Sansa says. 

“Aren’t you close to your family?”

Sansa considers combining pink and cream as she works out how to answer Margaery’s question. Cream is lovely, especially for winter. The combination makes her think of afternoon tea and Valentine’s Day.

“We’re close,” Sansa finally says. “But we don’t really do things together. Arya’s into sports, she hates things like knitting. Robb used to be into sports, now he just watches them and … I guess he reads a lot, too? Bran’s obsessed with video games and refuses to learn to craft, even though he still complains that being in a chair means he can’t do as much as he used to. And Rickon is … Rickon.” Sansa shakes her head. “Maybe if I set the yarn on fire Rickon would knit.”

“He can’t be that bad.”

“Maybe not anymore,” Sansa allows. “He hasn’t been in trouble in a while. And he’s learned a lot working with Uncle Byrnden, he rescued a bunch of my houseplants.”

He also forbade Sansa from buying any more, under the grounds that she’s a plant-murderer, which Sansa thinks is very unfair. 

It’s not her fault plants are so confusing.

“What about Brienne? Has she kept up her knitting?” Margaery looks curious.

“Sort of? She seems to think she can’t do it because she’s not feminine enough,” Sansa says. “I told her your brother owns the store, but still. I did talk her into the idea of knitting a row whenever she has a spare moment, and I think I saw the needles in her bag the other day.”

Sansa holds some pink and blue together, then rejects it. Too much like a baby nursery. That definitely could work if she played with the saturation, but she’s not really feeling a darker blue. Pink and navy would look nice, though. And pale blue pairs better with red than dark pink.

Margaery takes the blue and replaces it with a sunny yellow, then adds a peach skein. Sansa considers it. It looks like a winter sunrise. 

“My ex taught me,” Margaery continues. “She was really good, too. Like you.”

Sansa tries not to grin in excitement. 

Now it seems like she definitely has a chance.


	22. I Kissed A Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery has a gift for Sansa, and Sansa is happy to thank her.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it. “Margaery is biting her lip when she says it, an expression so different from her usually confident face that it startles Sansa. 

Sansa turns the carefully wrapped package over in her hands. The wrapping paper is thick, printed with embossed snowflakes. 

“It’s nothing much,” Margaery continues. “I just saw it and thought of you and I know it’s not Christmas yet, but I couldn’t wait.”

Sansa carefully unties the silvery ribbon holding the package together — it’s real fabric ribbon, she can save it and use it in her hair — before undoing the paper. It’s so pretty, she can’t bring herself to rip at it like she might normally.

Sansa gasps when she unfolds the gift. It’s a scarf, for fashion not warmth, beautiful silk printed in abstract patterns in swirls of blue and green. It’s _beautiful_.

And Margaery says she bought it because it made her think of Sansa. 

“I love it.” Sansa pets the scarf gently, and thinks she sees a relieved look on Margaery’s face.

Sansa really does mean to kiss Margaery on the cheek when she hugs her and thanks her. Maybe a bit closer to her mouth than is entirely proper for friends, because she hasn’t actually asked Margaery out yet or had a real date.

Except Margaery turns her head just as Sansa is about to kiss her and Sansa catches Margaery’s lips instead of her cheek.

Margaery is sweet and soft and her lips taste like tea and peppermint chapstick and Sansa is only human after all. When Margaery responds, moving her lips against Sansa’s and darting her tongue out to taste, Sansa deepens the kiss and pulls her closer.

“Do you thank everyone like that?” Margaery asks, when they stop kissing to breathe. She doesn’t move away, her breath warm against Sansa’s mouth. Sansa moves one hand to pet Margaery’s hair, sliding from the long strands to the fuzz of the undercut, watching the way Margaery shivers a little as she does.

“No.” Sansa kisses her again, sucking on Margaery’s lower lip and trying to learn the things that make the other woman sigh and hum against her. 

“Good.” Margaery nips at Sansa’s lower lip before kissing her again, and Sansa can tell she’s smiling when Sansa whimpers a little into the kiss.

Two can play that game.

Sliding a hand under the edge of Margaery’s sweater and resting it on the smooth skin of her stomach definitely gets her a little squeak and Margaery pressing herself more against Sansa, sliding her own hand down Sansa’s back and grabbing at her ass. That makes Sansa sigh and hook one leg over Margaery’s, pulling them even closer.

It’s the best kind of competition, soft hands and sweet lips. Margaery makes the prettiest little noises, too, that curl into the pit of Sansa’s stomach and bloom into heat. 

Sansa only pulls back when the door chime rings, jingle bells pulling her back to reality.

That’s probably for the best, Sansa realizes, with a blush rising in her cheeks as she considers that they’re on one of the couches at the shop, in full view of the windows. And somehow, they’ve maneuvered themselves so Margaery is half-reclined, Sansa sprawled on top of her. 

Of course it’s Selyse Florent (or Baratheon? She can’t seem to decide if she is taking her name back after the divorce or not) and she sucks air between her teeth and scowls at the pair of them.

Sansa waves a little, returning to her sweater while Margaery helps Selyse. After Selyse loudly demands Margaery washes her hands. Which, honestly. Margaery’s hands may not have been precisely visible, but they were clearly outside of clothing. 

Unlike Sansa’s.

Still, it is a store and Margaery is working, so Sansa doesn’t set down her project, deliberately keeping the yarn and needles between them. The risk of stab wounds is not sexy.

“I was going to ask you to coffee first,” Sansa says. “I really was.”

Margaery smirks.

“I have coffee at my house,” she says. “And we close at 8.” 

That’s only a few hours away. Sansa grins. 

“That sounds great.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is from the Jill Sobule song, NOT Katy Perry, for the record.


	23. Up All Night To Get Lucky*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen keeps running into Rickon. And to her surprise, he keeps talking to her.
> 
> *New content, not from prompts*

Shireen doesn't get fired from her job after the tree climbing incident, though she does get a stern lecture on proper behavior and supervision from Septa Mordane, who doubles as the school principal. It's a relief, because as small as it is, Shireen likes Westeros, she likes living here. She likes her little apartment with it's big, sunny bay window and collection of houseplants.

Admittedly, she likes it less since Baelish bought the building, but that's a different story.

At any rate, Shireen expects she'll never see Rickon Stark again, except perhaps in passing. It is a small town, after all. They clearly don't have similar interests or social circles. Not that Shireen really has a social circle. More like a... social line. Or dot.

She's out getting a drink after work with Missandei, when her friend's eyes get wide.

"Shireen," Missy says. "Why is there a hot and kind of scary guy staring at you?'

Shireen starts to turn to look, but Missy grabs her arm.

"Don't be obvious about it," Missy reaches over and unbuttons the top couple of buttons on Shireen's cardigan and then frowns at the high neckline of the dress Shireen has on underneath.

They're both elementary school teachers, and yet somehow Missy always looks effortlessly cool and still appropriate. It's Friday, so she's wearing skinny jeans (they still haven't got Septa Mordane to allow denim the rest of the week) and a deep teal sweater with adorably chunky, coordinating boots.

Shireen's dress has tiny foxes on it and she likes it, but the bartender had given her a condescending look when she'd sat down and ordered her drink. The bartenders at Tarly's are awful, but Shireen is far too intimidated to go into the only other bar in town, where she assumes they'll laugh in her face. It looks like the kind of place where fights break out on the regular.

It does not look like the kind of place for women who wear high-heeled Mary Janes and dresses with tiny foxes. 

Missy fusses with Shireen's hair, and then nods.

Shireen turns back to the bar and then keeps turning, on the pretense of looking at the drinks menu.

Rickon Stark is leaning against the wall, talking to an older man Shireen really doesn't pay attention to. Rickon looks just as casual as before, baggy jeans and a tee shirt with something printed on it, tattoos going down his arms. His biceps really are very impressive.

Shireen squeaks a little when he sees her looking and smiles her way, spinning back to face Missy.

"That's Rickon. From the field trip."

"That's tree guy?" Missy's eyebrows just about hit her hairline. "He's hot."

"Yes, well." Shireen takes another sip of her ginger pear cocktail. "He picked me up and put me in a tree, Missy, it's humiliating. And he told me I was stupid to wear a skirt to the woods. He's probably laughing at me."

"I mean, he's a little ..." Missy makes a motion indicating her shoulders, presumably referring to Rickon's build. He's definitely broad across, which is very unlike the skinny, hipster-type guys Missy prefers. "But he's definitely hot."

Shireen is aware of this, she has had many, many thoughts about this since the field trip, but it is an irrelevant fact to her life.

"Also, he's coming over here," Missy says.

Shireen almost spills her drink across the bar.

Up close, Rickon looks a little dirty and sweaty, which makes sense if he works for the Tully landscaping company. He definitely doesn't look like he should be in Tarly's, which tries it's best to be the high-class restaurant in town.

It should be gross, but Rickon smells so good and Shireen has the sudden urge to bury her head in his neck and just inhale the scent of his skin.

Not really thoughts she should be having at this moment.

Rickon leans on the bar next to Shireen, trying to flag down the bartender, before glancing over at her.

"Fancy drink," he says, looking at her glass.

The bartender is ignoring him very studiously.

"It's one of the specials," Shireen says.

"I'm Missy," Missy finally says, when it's clear neither Rickon nor Shireen is going to say anything else. "I teach with Shireen."

They shake hands, Rickon giving her the kind of assessing look Shireen is used to seeing men direct at her friend.

"So you work at Tully landscaping?" Missy asks, finally giving in and flagging down the bartender, who of course comes over immediately. Rickon orders beer.

"Yeah," Rickon says. He's still leaning next to Shireen. "Usually doesn't involve kids, though."

"Brynden thinks it helps get them excited about nature," Shireen says, almost apologetically, what is _wrong_ with her? Her job is important, she shouldn’t be apologizing about it.

"Hey, I'm not complaining," Rickon says. "I don't usually get to climb trees."

"Thanks for that," Shireen says, dryly. "I almost got fired."

"But you didn't!" Missy is far too cheerful about all of this, turning her attention back to Rickon. "I haven't seen you here before."

Which makes it sound like Missy and Shireen are here all the time, which they sort of are, here or Fat Walda's, but it's not like they're alcoholics or something.

"Not my usual kind of place," Rickon says. He takes his beer, slides some crumpled bills across the bar, and nods at them both.

"See you around," he finishes, and ambles back off to the other side of the restaurant.

Shireen resists the urge to bang her head against the bar.

"I think he's into you," Missy says.

"Don't be absurd."

The next time Shireen sees Rickon is at Evenfall's. Getting a pizzeria has been the best thing to happen to Westeros in years and it's pretty popular with everyone in town, so it's less of a surprise to see him there. Shireen is waiting for her slice, after a morning browsing through Cregan's and trying to find something festive for the town holiday party.

She almost runs into Rickon, literally, because he's carrying a massive stack of pizza boxes that are impairing his vision.

"Party?" Shireen asks, as she helps him steady the boxes. He's wearing long sleeves under his tee shirt this time, but still, it's November, how is he not freezing? Shireen is bundled up in a wool coat, hat and scarf, and mittens pulled on for good measure. Well, she's put the mittens in her pocket because she’s indoors, but still.

"Nah, family dinner," Rickon replies.

Shireen blinks. She remembers there being a couple of Starks at school, but she doesn't remember there being _that_ many. That’s a Frey-level amount of boxes.

"How about you?" He nods at her empty hands.

"Drowning my sorrows in carbs and cheese," Shireen says, before she can stop and think perhaps that's not the impression she wants to be leaving here.

But Rickon just laughs a little. "Sorrows? You? You're like a Disney princess come to life."

Shireen honestly has no idea if that's a compliment or not.

"Complete with evil stepmother,” she mutters. “Former stepmother, anyway.” 

Without thinking, her hand goes up to her cheek to touch her scars. They are a lot better now, and if Shireen pulls her hair forward on that side they’re barely noticeable. But now she’s gone and drawn attention to them.

Rickon shifts the stack of boxes to one hand and reaches out to touch Shireen’s cheek. She closes her eyes. Shireen isn’t sure if she does it because she doesn’t want to see the pity on Rickon’s face and answer the inevitable questions, or because she’s enjoying the feeling of his warm, calloused fingers against her skin.

Possibly both.

When Rickon pulls his hand away and Shireen opens her eyes she braces herself for his reaction.

“That sucks,” he says bluntly. “The scars are badass though.”

Then the nervous guy at the counter is calling out Shireen’s order and by the time she gets her slice and turns back Rickon is gone.

Shireen doesn’t see Rickon again until after early December. Tormund has decided they need to bond as coworkers and insists on dragging everyone except Sister Mordane to see some band at Littlefingers.

The bar is exactly what Shireen expects. She feels so out of place, even in jeans. Jeans topped with a pink sweater with white polka dots, because that’s just who Shireen is as a person and she’s not going to pretend to be anything else.

Missy is thrilled, because she’s been looking for more chances to talk to the new art and music teacher. Grey is very nice, but Shireen isn’t terribly excited to be playing wingwoman again.

Tormund is as loud and enthusiastic outside of school as he is at school. Except now instead of coaxing kids to play sports, he’s pulling everyone to the bar for drinks

Shireen hasn’t had tequila shots since college and there’s a reason for that. She remembers it several rounds in, as she stumbles to the bar, leaning heavily on it.

Shireen decides to switch to hard cider, ignoring the advice of the surly bartender, the one whose scars are worse than hers, to get water instead.

He’d been pretty dismissive of Shireen, taking her in from head to toe, until the fourth or fifth round, when she’d forgotten not to brush her hair back on the left side. The bartender's not exactly friendly now, but they’d shared a nod of recognition and he’s been less overtly rude.

Being a burn survivor is a weird club. It’s so uniquely painful that you can’t dismiss the few other people who understand how bad it is. Even if you’d never speak to them otherwise.

Shireen is waiting for her drink when she senses someone coming up behind her, then Rickon is leaning next to her.

“What’s a Disney princess doing in a bar like this?”

Shireen is drunk enough to grin at him and reach over to hug him in greeting as if they’re friends

He looks a little taken aback, probably because they aren’t _actually_ friends and he didn’t ask for an armful of kindergarten teacher. Shireen detaches herself, staring intently at the bar when the bartender comes back with her drink and a beer for Rickon, even though he hasn’t ordered yet.

Shireen stumbles a little when she turns away but a strong arm catches her around her waist

“Careful princess.” Rickon sounds like he’s laughing at her. Shireen makes a face and tells him to stop but it only makes him laugh more.

“Don’t drink much, do you?”

“Not tequila,” Shireen tells him.

Rickon is the one making a face now. “Tequila’s bad news. What are you drinking that for?”

“Tormund,” she tells him solemnly.

“That your boyfriend?” Rickon finally stops laughing. “Shouldn’t he be taking care of you, then?”

Now Shireen is laughing. “Not my boyfriend. Coworker.”

She’s not sure how to explain Tormund, but Shireen is saved the effort when the man himself comes bounding up, Missy and Grey following, and insists on yet another round of shots. He pulls Rickon into it too, slinging a beefy arm around him and declaring that any friend of Shireen’s a friend of his.

Then Tormund is off again, diving back into the crowd by the stage, and Missy and Grey are heading back to the booth where they’re talking very intensely.

Shireen is planning to people-watch, usually that’s what she does in bars, but Rickon stays with her. Both of them lean against the wall, since all the chairs are full, and it’s a little awkward at first. But then Rickon talks about his work and it turns out that the one thing they have in common is plants and he actually listens when Shireen talks about her houseplants. That never happens.

Then Tormund is back again, with yet another round of shots, and Shireen is definitely feeling dizzy as steps back against Rickon in the increasingly crowded bar.

At first she's not sure if she actually feels his hand on her ass, or if it's just an accident in tight quarters. But then it happens again, and Shireen knows it's deliberate.

The responsible thing, the smart thing, is to step away and turn back. But Rickon is strong and solid behind her and he smells so good and his hand is warm so Shireen just stays still, feeling the way he slides his hand over her.

Rickon keeps talking, whatever conversation they're having, Shireen is drunk enough that it's not entirely clear. They've moved on from plants to each other's jobs, random things, but the whole time he keeps touching her.

Then his hand dips below the waistband of her jeans and underwear, sliding along the skin.

Shireen has never had anyone touch her like this, she probably should stop this. But Rickon shifts closer, and his hands feel so good, and one slides around to her hip.

Shireen has no idea what they're actually talking about now, because all she can focus on is that she's incredibly turned on and there's a hot guy with his hands down her pants in the middle of a crowded bar and how is this her life? This is not what Shireen does.

Shireen is wondering, as she manages to respond to something Rickon's just said, his voice low and rumbling in her ear, if he's going to move the hand on her hip forward and down. And if she wants him to do that, because part of her really, really does but the tiny, rational part of her brain is screaming danger, Will Robinson as loud as it possibly can.

Rickon doesn’t move his hands much more, one stroking along the skin of Shireen’s lower back and ass, the other rubbing patterns over her hip, dipping down far enough he can probably tell Shireen doesn’t wax her bikini line (maybe she should start) but not as far as she wants him to. Or doesn’t want him to. Shireen isn’t sure. 

The entire time, he just keeps talking and Shireen keeps responding without having the slightest clue as to what either of them are saying. Rickon seems unaffected, like he doesn’t have his large, warm, hands on parts of her skin nobody but her touches. Shireen tries to stay as cool as he is, even though she feels like she’s going to squirm out of her skin. She wonders if he can tell.

Then the band is packing up and the bartenders are shouting that it's time to go home and Missy is yelling at Shireen from the door to hurry up.

Rickon slips his hands out of her jeans, but catches Shireen's wrist when she tries to step forward.

"Come home with me," he says. His voice is still low, his eyes dark as he looks at Shireen in a way that men do not usually look at Shireen.

It would be so easy to say yes but Shireen is drunk. Really drunk.

She doesn't want her first time to be when she's wasted.

"I can't," she manages. Rickon's face shifts a little, then is back to normal and he just gives a nod. And then Missy is squealing in her ear, demanding the full story later. Shireen finally gets home and passes out on her bed, but not before she notices that her sweater smells like the soap or cologne Rickon was wearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last hands in pants bit may or may not be based on a true story from my life. Which ended terribly, because i was bad at communicating it was no, not right now, not no not ever. Sigh. He had great biceps, too.
> 
> Also, probably shouldn't have done that in a bar full of coworkers and a boss that was a prominent public figure. Ahem.
> 
> ANYWAY. Have fun, be safe, hope hot people stick their hands down your pants .


	24. Sugarplum Fairies In My Coffee Cup*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Margaery will get that coffee. Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't noted the rating change from the prompt fills, now's the time to do so. This is earning that E.

Sansa’s confused when she first wakes up. First, because the room she’s in is so vibrant. It’s not the crisp white walls of her condo or the pale pink that still adorns her childhood bedroom. Then, when she places the vibrant grape walls as Margaery’s bedroom, Sansa’s confused by the empty spot on the bed next to her. 

Sansa slips out of the bed, debating whether she should straighten the sky blue sheets, and grabs a robe having over Margaery’s door. It’s gold silk with flowers and birds, and barely comes to mid-thigh on Sansa. 

Sansa follows her nose, the smell of fresh coffee drawing her down the hall past the rooms she’d been too busy to notice the night before. Margaery has a lot of art on the walls, ranging from abstract to art nouveau to realism. Some are framed prints, others seem to be original canvases. 

The coffee scent leads Sansa to the bright orange kitchen, where Margaery is leaning on the island staring intently at a coffee pot. 

Unlike Sansa, Margaery is not wearing a robe. Margaery isn’t wearing anything at all, the pale, graceful arch of her spine and full curve of her hips on display for Sansa. Sansa can’t stop the small noise that escapes her to see it. 

Margaery spins around, a small smile playing around her lips as she takes Sansa in. Sansa knows she looks thoroughly rumpled, from sleep and sex, her hair in tangles. She doesn’t care, not when she’s getting a chance to look at Margaery, the full roundness of her breasts and the small red marks Sansa left on her skin. 

“I did promise you coffee,” Margaery says, and she sounds a little breathless.

That’s good. Sansa _feels_ a little breathless as she steps closer.

“You did.” 

Sansa hasn’t ever considered herself a particularly strong person, not like her brothers or Arya, but, to her surprise, it’s easy enough to lift Margaery up onto the island and step between her legs. Probably because Margaery is helping, but Sansa can’t help feeling a little swell of pride. 

Margaery tastes like orange juice and makes a happy little humming noise into Sansa’s mouth when they kiss. 

“I do like to keep my promises,” Margaery says. She tilts her head back to make it easier for Sansa to kiss her way along the column of her neck. Sansa can’t help grinning against Margaery’s skin when she finds a hickey from last night, especially when Margaery hisses as Sansa kisses the bruised flesh.

Sansa revels in the feel of Margaery’s skin under her hands and lips, soft and salty, as she traces a meandering path. Margaery wraps her thighs around Sansa’s hips to try to pull her closer, which also feels amazing but isn’t Sansa’s particular goal right now.

Sansa isn’t exactly what you’d call experienced, she’s really only slept with one woman and Asha had taken control. Which was fine, Sansa hadn’t expected anything different, and it had helped her nerves at not knowing exactly what she was supposed to do.

With Margaery, as soon as they stepped through the door, it was a give and take, pushing and pulling at each other as they got their clothes off and stumbled towards Margaery’s bed. Sansa figured out very quickly that she also liked being in control as much as she liked letting Margaery take charge. 

Right now, she feels like pushing Margaery to lie down on the island, releasing one of Margaery’s berry pink nipples with a wistful sigh. Margaery complies without arguing, letting Sansa arrange her while she kisses along Margaery’s soft stomach.

Margaery is ticklish, and Sansa can’t resist taking advantage a little, nibbling small kisses along her sides as Margaery squirms and giggles. 

Sansa’s been dreaming of Margaery since she first walked into the yarn shop, and she’s got a long list of ideas, including doing her best to kiss every single inch of Margaery’s smooth, pretty skin. But it’s far more tempting to tug Margaery towards the edge of the counter and drop to her knees.

Margaery looks amazing from here, eagerly spreading her thighs for Sansa, and wiggling a little in anticipation. She even smells good, musky and tempting Sansa as she pauses to suck a bruise into Margaery’s thigh. 

It had scared Sansa a little, the first time, how much she _wanted_. She’d wondered, of course, if she was really gay, or if she was just used to being close with her female friends, but then Asha had lost her pants and Sansa had looked at her spread legs and wanted nothing more than to taste and touch. All she’d been able to think about was lowering her head, licking her way along the places so needy and wanting. 

It’s even better now, because she doesn’t just _want_ Margaery, she cares about her, too. It heightens everything, the way Margaery pushes her hips into Sansa’s face while she delicately traces a path around her pink folds, the frustrated little whimpers Margaery makes when Sansa avoids focusing too much on her clit, where she clearly wants it the most. 

Sansa waits until Margaery is digging her heels into Sansa’s back, fingers tangled in Sansa’s hair, before she finally starts to focus. Margaery is so beautifully hot and wet when Sasna slides two fingers into her, curling them until she finds the spot that makes Margaery’s hips come up off the counter and a strangled gasp come from her throat.

Sansa almost doesn’t want to stop. No, she definitely doesn’t want to stop, because this is the best place she can imagine. Margaery’s thighs heavy on her shoulders, the delicious sounds Margaery is making above her, the way Margaery’s hips react every time Sansa sucks on her clit, the way she clenches around Sansa’s fingers. 

Sansa can’t help making a disappointed noise when Margaery tugs harder at her hair, pulling her up and away from where Margaery is still pulsing around Sansa’s fingers. 

“Will I get that kind of thanks every time I make coffee?” Margaery asks, after kissing Sansa deeply until they’re both breathless.

Sansa considers playing coy.

“Even if you don’t,” she says, instead. Margaery laughs a little as she pushes the robe off Sansa’s shoulders.

“Careful, I’m going to become lazy and spoiled if you make it that easy.” 

Sansa shivers a little at the idea, because spoiling Margaery gives her a lot of ideas. Most of which involve never leaving the bed.

Margaery giggles a little against Sansa’s collarbone, sliding one hand down Sansa’s stomach agonizingly slowly. 

Whatever Sansa’s planning to say in response — and she really doesn’t have any good ideas — is lost as Margaery’s lips close over Sansa’s breast, teeth tugging lightly at her nipple in a way that sends a throb of desire straight to Sansa’s core. 

It’s not fair, especially when Sansa is already so wet and ready from making Margaery come. 

“I like that,” Margaery says, when she releases Sansa’s breast. Sansa realizes, dimly, she’s moaning a little, okay, a lot, and pushing her hips towards Margaery. “I like how pretty and eager you are.”

They both moan when Margaery finally slides her hand down and strokes between Sansa’s legs, nimble fingers finding the spots that makes Sansa tremble. Margaery is kinder than Sansa was, she doesn’t make Sansa wait or beg, just finds the place that makes Sansa’s hips jerk uncontrollably and focuses on it mercilessly until Sansa is tensing against her, light bursting behind her eyelids. 

Margaery wraps her legs around Sansa’s thighs, anchoring them both, while Sansa drops her head onto Margaery’s shoulder, panting and darting her tongue out to taste the sweat cooling there. 

“Mmmm, we really should have coffee,” Margaery says, pushing Sansa away. “Before it gets cold.”

Sansa isn’t sure she cares if the coffee gets cold, but she lets Margaery pour them both cups and coax her into leaving the robe behind as they make their way to Margaery’s sofa.

“I still owe you a date,” Sansa points out, as they’re snuggled under a faux fur blanket, legs tangling together. 

“I’m sure you can find a way to make it up to me,” Margaery says, with a smirk on her face.

They can always re-heat the coffee later, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: They're never going to drink that coffee.


	25. Heard It Through The Grapevine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best part of Ygritte's job is definitely the gossip.

There are a lot of great things about Ygritte Wilde’s job. Wildling Brews is fairly relaxed, Mance is a decent enough boss, and there’s no dress code, which is why Ygritte is currently getting away with wearing a Supernatural shirt with occult symbols down the arms. 

So far the only people to complain have been that bitch Selyse (Ygritte hates going to the dentist, but she hates it even more since Baratheon divorced Selyse AND Melisandre , and both hygienists seem hell-bent on taking their anger out on unsuspecting patients, never mind how many years it’s been) and creepy Preacher Sparrow. Who preaches about sin and stares at teen girl’s legs for far too long, so Ygritte’s perfectly happy if he never sets food in Wildling’s again. So is Mance. 

The best thing about Ygritte’s job, though, is that being at a coffee shop means hearing all the town gossip. 

She grabs a tray and makes a round to tidy tables and get dishes left by people who can’t read a giant fucking sign telling them to bus their own fucking table, casually loitering near the more interesting conversations. 

The Stark girls are here for their weekly coffee date. The younger one looks as surly as always, bitching about the new mechanic at Mott’s place and her car not being fixed. Ygritte thinks that’s a little unfair considering how bad the car was crumpled in when Ygritte stopped by the garage to get her oil changed. Gendry is a decent guy. A little too young and a little too quiet for Ygritte, but still with biceps she wouldn't mind taking a bite out of.

The older Stark doesn’t seem to care, because she’s smiling dreamily into space and has a giant hickey on her neck. Good for her.

Ygritte steps quickly past the table where Baelish is angrily writing signs telling tenants that he has paid for too many plumber visits and will evict anyone he finds flushing menstrual products from their apartment.

Which is some bullshit, because Ygritte saw Maege this morning, and Maege was bitching about how the pipes in most of Baelish’s buildings are corroded from years of using shitty drain cleaner to try to avoid hiring her and how all are about ten years past needing replacement. 

Ygritte grabs a refill for the pretty brunette from the pharmacy, who has a giant textbook in front of her and sets it down. She doesn’t even look up.

Ygritte feels bad for how much time the woman spends pouring over chemistry textbooks, grabbing a cup of tea is the least she can do. Even if, technically, the cafe has no wait staff.

Besides, it lets her hover near the two elementary school teachers who came in looking hungover as shit, which is shocking all on it’s own. 

Ygritte nearly drops the tray when she hears the prim one, who Ygritte doesn’t think she’s ever seen wearing pants, mumbling something about some guy having his hand down her jeans at the bar last night. Ygritte, up until that moment, would have bet money that that woman had never even been kissed. 

The other one squeals so loud she makes herself wince.

The secret life of elementary school teachers. Who knew?

Ygritte really wants to hear more but the door chime has her hustling back to the counter where two of Westeros’s finest are waiting.

“You look like frozen shit,” Ygritte greets them, looking at the snow collected on their uniform jackets and the way Tarly has his hands shoved deep in his pockets. 

“Good morning,” Tarly says, because he’s always polite, no matter what Ygritte says to him. It’s almost enough to make her feel bad. Almost.

“You’d be freezing too if you had to stay outside in this.” Snow looks sulky, and his hair is suspiciously stiff where strands have escaped from his bun.

“That’s why I’m not a cop.” Ygritte grabs cups and starts making their usual. “Well, that and because I don’t believe in propping up a patriarchal system of oppression that relies on violence and intimidation to control people.”

Asha Greyjoy looks up from playing footsie with Val at the front table long enough to raise a solidarity fist. 

“Fight the power,” Asha says, too loudly for a Saturday full of hung over patrons. Baelish snorts. Old Mrs. Crayne cackles out something that sounds like agreement. With whom, Ygritte isn’t sure.

“We can’t change the system from the outside,” Tarly starts earnestly, and Ygritte tunes him out. She shoves their coffees at them, before reaching out and snapping off one of the stiff curls near Snow’s temple.

Just as she thought, his hair’s actually frozen.

“Hey!” Snow pets up his head. 

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re still pretty.” Ygritte makes another round. 

The older Stark girl is sighing now, and sharing a loving and probably somewhat idealized description of someone’s breasts to her younger sister. Who looks vaguely nauseated. Ygritte wonders, briefly, how someone might describe her breasts.

The prim teacher is now bemoaning her own behavior. Ygritte considers saying something, but it looks like her friend has it well in hand, telling the woman not to be ashamed. Really, she’s not bad looking. Ygritte would hit it. 

Ygritte manages to accidentally bump her hip into Baelish’s table, causing him to slip and send a streak of marker down the middle of one sign.

“That’s a nice way to treat a frozen man.” Snow is definitely pouting now as Ygritte returns. “What am I supposed to do, when I have to go back out there again, all damaged.”

“Oh, I have a few ideas to warm you up.” Ygritte tosses the line back on reflex, but she happens to glance his way and notice the red flush start creeping up his neck.

Well now. That _is_ interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baelish's landlord behavior is based on a very real slumlord I had the misfortune to rent from. I still sometimes have panic attacks if I see a piece of paper taped to my door — and I own my own house now. Well, me and the nice people at the mortgage company.


	26. Wasting Away In Margaritaville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party for police, fire and EMS is always an interesting one.

The official holiday party for city employees always starts as one of the most boring events in town, if you ask Jon. Not that anyone ever has. 

Tarly’s always caters, Sam’s father glaring at his son the entire time while Sam suddenly feels compelled to load his plate with salad and grilled vegetables instead of the main course, and then there’s a bunch of boring speeches from Mayor Arryn, Chief Selmy and Judge Tully. Usually Baelish and Lannister end up speaking too, even though they’re both council members and not the mayor, which means Jon’s uncle feels like he has to give a speech, because if Tywin Lannister does anything, Ned has to do it better and more ethically. 

The booze doesn’t come out until Howland Reed finishes thanking his crew of volunteers for running fire and emergency calls, and most of the older crowd departs after a lackluster dessert.

Jon will admit that this year is shaping up to be better. For starters, someone convinced Arryn to skip Tarly’s and hold it at the new pizza and Italian place instead. Someone also convinced the mayor to allow everyone to bring a plus one, which means there are a lot more people circulating around the back room Evenfall’s.

Jon almost drops the plate he’s loading with garlic bread and fettuccine alfredo when he feels a bump on his hip and turns his head to see Ygritte grinning at him from behind her red hair.

“Stalking me now?” Jon tries to make it sound flirty but he’s pretty sure he just lands on creepy and cringes at himself.

Even Sam, who’s piling chicken parmigiana on top of his lasagna, looks disappointed by Jon’s effort. 

“I’m just here for the free food.” Ygritte takes the fettucine ladle from Jon’s hand, piling the pasta next to a serving of the garlic butter tortellini. 

She follows them to the table, though, sitting next to Jon and cheerfully ignoring Trant when he protests that she’s moved his coat and stolen his chair.

That’s just fine with Jon, Trant is a dick and as far as Jon is concerned, he can fuck off. Plus if Trant goes, so does Payne. Both of them grumbling but neither quite willing to start a fight this early in the evening, especially not with a woman.

Jon tries not to look disappointed when the burly redhead from the fire squad shows up, giving Ygritte a smacking kiss on each cheek before settling next to her. 

“Shame for Mance,” the redheaded man says. Jon can’t quite remember his name. “Getting stuck with being on call.” 

“We’ll just have to eat his share,” Ygritte says.

“And drink it!” The man roars with laughter. 

Jon is pretty sure he also teaches elementary school. He wonders how terrified the kids must be of the hulking, loud, giant of a man. Jon is mildly terrified, and he’s a grown adult.

The rest of the table fills up with people, luckily ones who aren’t too bad — Addam Marbrand from Crakehall and Marbrand with a pretty girl on his arm who smiles sappily up at him the whole time, Dacey Mormont still in her WFD fire sweats and looking entirely unperturbed to be seated by Addam and his thousand-dollar suit, Daario Naharis, who slips Jon his flask under the table, Daario’s date Ros from the flower shop, and Oberyn Martell and his wife-girlfriend-something Ellaria Sand. 

Oberyn manages to eat his food like he’s performing sex acts on it, and Jon tries to avoid looking at him or Ellaria and the substantial amount of skin shown by her dress. 

The speeches are just as boring as ever. Mayor Arryn is mercifully brief, but Baelish and Tywin Lannister drone on and on, and Uncle Ned feels compelled to match them. Howland will be as brief as Arryn too, but Jon can already feel the boredom sinking in while Baelish talks about histhe vision of the town and Westeros becoming something greater. Or something. 

Daario’s flask makes a few more rounds under the table. Addam has his chin propped in his hand, looking half-sleep. Ellaria has migrated from her chair to Oberyn’s lap and is occasionally making some breathy sort of sounds Jon is very definitely not thinking about. And Dacey has actually fallen asleep, head pillowed on her arms. She’d almost face planted into her food, but which Addam had removed it just in time, much to his date’s annoyance. 

Ros is eating Dacey’s abandoned plate, shrugging cheerfully and saying it would be a shame to waste such good food. 

When a small foot brushes against Jon’s ankle, he jerks so hard his knees hit the table. 

Daario glares at him. Dacey doesn’t stir. 

Ygritte laughs in Jon’s ear. 

“Twitchy, aren’t you?” Her foot moves higher, slipping under the leg of Jon’s pants, the silky feeling of pantyhose sending a shiver through him. 

Jon chances a glance at her companion, but he’s involved in some conversation with Addam’s date, who has abandoned Addam and is batting her eyelashes up at the burly man with a look of adoration. Addam is staring blankly off into space.

Ygritte’s hand lands on Jon’s thigh, and he almost hits the table again. 

“These things always this boring?” Ygritte’s close enough that Jon can feel her breath on his neck.

“Until the old guys leave.” Jon tries to shift away, but Ygritte just moves with him, hand creeping closer to places Jon really doesn’t think she needs to be touching right now. 

Ellaria lets out a little breathy moan from across the table. 

Oberyn is a lawyer, you’d think he’d have better judgement but maybe not. Jon wonders who defends lawyers if they get arrested. Aren’t they competitors? Although Addam doesn’t look like he particularly cares what Oberyn gets up to, or like he’s planning to use it next time they’re in court facing each other. Ros scoots closer to Daario every time Ellaria gasps or twitches, like she’s getting inspired.

Ygritte rests her head on Jon’s shoulder. He can just hear her smirking when he moves her hand from where it’s dangerously close to his crotch. 

“Shy? Or don’t you know what to do with it?” Ygritte slips her hand back up Jon’s thigh.

“I know what to do with it.” Jon grits his teeth. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’d just rather not be facing your boyfriend’s fists.” Jon chances another look at the burly redhead. He looks bored, and Addam’s date looks frustratedly at the redheads on either side of her, neither of whom is paying her any attention. 

Ygritte laughs. 

“You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Jon doesn’t get a chance to respond, because Howland Reed is standing up to speak, giving a short thanks to everyone and asking the firefighter and EMS volunteers and stand and be recognized. Ygritte’s date leaps to his feet and Oberyn diverts his attention from Ellaria long enough to help Addam prop a still-sleeping Dacey into an upright position.

There’s polite applause after Howland finishes, and then most of the older men file out, Chief Selmy and Howland bringing up the rear. 

There’s a brief moment of silence and then Bronn Blackwater leaps up on a table and starts shouting “Shots” while Davos Seaworth goes to help the restaurant’s proprietor move what Jon swears was a solid wall to unveil a full bar. 

Dacey wakes up as someone slides a couple of shot glasses of tequila in front of her and pounds them back without missing a beat. Jon takes his own shots, wincing a little at the taste — tequila has never been his favorite — and gets roped into rounds of drinks with various groups of friends and colleagues.

Everything gets pretty blurry after that, most of it a dull haze to Jon.

Val and Asha making out in the middle of the dance floor. Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell joining them with their own makeout session, which makes Jon blink a few times to confirm he’s seeing what he thinks he is. 

Oberyn punching Ilyn Payne when he starts yelling about kicking Renly and Loras out because they’re with men kissing each other. 

Oberyn making out with Addam — Ellaria watching with great interest — to prove a point after that. Or something. It’s not entirely clear to Jon.

Sam getting emotional and crying a little on Jorah Mormont’s shoulder while he talks about Gilly from the bakery. 

Ellaria and Dacey making out in a corner, then disappearing and emerging later with Dacey in Ellaria’s gown (too short for her) and Ellaria wearing Dacey’s sweatshirt like a couture dress.

Ramsey Bolton and Devan Lannister coming to blows in the middle of the dance floor for reasons Jon doesn’t know or want to know.

Addam’s date disappearing with Daario and Ros.

The burly redhead — Tormund, that’s it — corners Jon off the dance floor and Jon is cringing in anticipation of his fists.

“You know how to treat a woman?”

Jon blinks up at Tormund. “Huh?”

“My cousin is a sweet girl. Deserves a man who knows how to treat her.”

Cousin? Jon’s eyes go to where Ygritte is dancing with Val and Loras in some sort of strangely choreographed routine while Margaritaville plays. Tormund seems to take his silence for an admission of inexperience.

“A man’s gotta make it good for a woman,” Tormund lectures, beefy hand settling on Jon’s shoulder. “Make sure she’s having fun, get her good and wet, slick like a baby seal.”

Jon wonders what, exactly, it is about him that makes people assume he’s a virgin. 

“I know,” he mumbles, trying not to think about Tormund putting any of that advice into practice. Jon’s never had any complaints from women, certainly. 

“At least you’re a slip of a thing,” Tormund says reflectively, eyeing Jon. “Won’t hurt her none. Just hope she can feel it!”

With that, Tormund gives a roaring laugh, and wanders off, leaving Jon standing in the corner trying to formulate a response.

Jon can’t be entirely surprised when Ygritte appears a few moments later to drag him out of the restaurant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't drink with firefighters. Just ... don't. Not if you like things like remembering what happened. Poor Addam's date, but she does wind up with a Daario Ros threesome so, you know. Not too bad.


	27. Think We Kissed But I Forgot*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes up in a room he doesn't recognize. Naked. And not alone.

Jon’s head feels like lead when he wakes up. That’s the first thing he notices. Followed by a series of confusing realizations.

The bed he’s in is not his own.

He’s not in the bed alone.

He’s naked. 

He’s hard.

The temptation to bury his head under the pillow and go back to sleep is strong, but Jon makes himself turn over, blinking to try to clear the morning haze from his eyes.

The room he’s in is … it’s a disaster, frankly. Clothes and shoes scattered everywhere, a dresser with a tangled mess of jewelry on top, a vanity covered in open makeup and hair ties. The curtains are held up with duct tape and there’s a movie poster peeling off one wall. 

It reminds Jon of Rickon’s room when Rickon was in high school, except more feminine.

Jon almost dreads looking at his bedmate, who is curled up against him, unmistakably naked and unmistakably female. The red hair covering his shoulder gives him a pretty good idea of who it is, though.

Jon just doesn’t know why he can’t remember anything.

“Stop thinking so hard.” Ygritte’s voice is muffled, probably because she still has her face buried in Jon’s shoulder. 

“I’m not.”

“You are, I can practically hear it.” Ygritte lifts her head slightly. She has lipstick smeared around her mouth and streaks of eyeliner around her face. 

Jon clears his throat. “Did we …?”

“Fuck? No.” Ygritte stretches a bit, her legs rubbing against Jon’s. It does not help his erection situation at all. “You kept saying I was too drunk.”

Jon feels a wave of relief. 

“It was very chivalrous,” Ygritte says, somewhat grudgingly. “And fucking annoying.”

“Consent is important.” 

“I was consenting.” 

“You were drunk,” Jon counters. “And so was I.” 

Ygritte smirks. “You could have just said you were having problems getting it up.”

“I was not!” Jon glares at her. “But I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”

Ygritte rolls over then, kicking the sheets down a bit, and stretches her arms above her head. Jon swallows. He’s had more than a few thoughts about what Ygritte would look like naked, and the reality is even better. Jon can’t help the way his eyes trace over Ygritte’s pale skin, the tight, pink nipples on her breasts, the slight line of her ribs under her skin. 

There are bruises purpling on Ygritte’s neck, so they clearly managed to do something last night. 

“I’m not drunk now,” Ygritte says. “Are you?”

Jon is not. He’s hungover, but he finds the headache is rapidly being pushed to the back of his mind. Probably because all of his blood is headed elsewhere. 

“No.” Jon reaches out for her, unable to deny himself. Ygritte is soft under his hands, so unlike the sharpness of her words. Not that Ygritte lets this soften her too much — she winds her fingers into Jon’s air, pulling his head where she wants it. 

Jon nips at her breast, pulling on her nipple with his teeth, gratified at the way Ygritte arches and moans. 

“I suppose you do know something,” Ygritte allows, as Jon kisses his way down her stomach. He bites her hipbone in retaliation, which does not seem to have any real impact because Ygritte just moans and spreads her legs apart.

Not that Jon’s complaining. He isn’t sure how common it is, but in Jon’s opinion, there’s nothing better than going down on a woman. There’s something about seeing and feeling her come undone on his tongue, the taste of it all, the feeling of being surrounded. 

Ygritte is so pretty, flushed and pink under a thatch of red hair, and she moans so beautifully when Jon licks her open. Her hands never leave his hair, pulling him closer, and scratching his scalp when Jon gives her clit only the lightest attention at first. It’s far too much fun to settle down first, Ygritte’s thighs heavy over his shoulders, and tease her until she’s desperate. 

Even desperate, Ygritte doesn’t beg, instead yanking at Jon’s curls and cursing him soundly until he gives her what she wants. Ygritte shakes and shudders when she finally comes apart, Jon sucking hard on her clit until she starts pushing him away. 

Jon can’t help the satisfied smirk he has when he comes back to lay next to her. Ygritte is still breathing heavily, a stray tremor working its way across her skin as she recovers. 

Jon is only moderately surprised that Ygritte shoves him onto his back when she’s steadier, straddling him and looking at him like he’s issued a challenge. 

Jon almost loses it when Ygritte slides back onto him, the heat and pressure of her overwhelming. Ygritte rides him slowly, clearly revenge for earlier. When Jon tries to move, she pins his hands over his head, keeping a slow, steady pace for what seems like hours.

It’s worth it to feel Ygritte come around him, the way she grinds her hips into him and gasps into his mouth. Jon’s own orgasm shakes him from his toes to the top of his head. Ygritte collapses on top of him, neither of them speaking for a while.

The moment is broken by Jon’s phone. 

Ygritte mumbles something into Jon’s neck, but he knows the ringtone — sure enough, Sam is on the other end, frantically explaining he’s covering for Jon but Selmy is pissed and Jon needs to get his ass in gear.

“Work,” Jon tries to explain, as he slides out from under Ygritte and starts looking for his clothes. 

He finally finds them in the living room, which is thankfully empty. Jon is fairly certain the other door he sees in the hallway belongs to someone else — a roommate or something. He remembers Ygritte saying it, but he doesn’t remember the details.

The details seem important. 

“Running away?” Ygritte leans against her door frame, an overly large tee shirt on. It reminds Jon of when Arya used to steal his and Robb’s clothes, even though she’d swim in them.

Except, you know, attractive.

“I’m late for my shift.” Jon locates one of his shoes under the sofa. He’s trying to figure out where the other one is when the second door opens and Jon suddenly remembers why the details are so important.

Tormund glares at Jon, looking from Ygritte to Jon and back. 

Which is pretty rich considering the guy was giving Jon sex tips last night.

Jon’s remaining shoe is on top of a bookshelf.

He doesn’t think it’s a good time to ask questions. 

“I’m late,” Jon says again, backing towards the door. “I’ll call you.”

Ygritte looks supremely unimpressed.

“Sure you will,” she says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon may not remember the previous night, but he does know he wouldn't sleep with a drunk person, because consent.


	28. Everyone But Me Is In Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya doesn't know what it's going to take to convince her mother she's straight. But whatever it is, she's willing to do it.

Arya is inspecting the work on her car, running a hand over the hood and prodding the bumper, when she gets her mother’s latest round of texts.

“It’s a ‘98 Buick, not a Porsche,” Gendry mutters from where he’s leaning against the wall.

Arya decides to pop the hood and check out the work inside just for that comment, while she reads through her mom’s probably well-meaning overtures. Gendry makes a disgruntled noise.

 _Don’t forget about the party!_ Arya can almost hear her mother’s chirpy tone. _Remember, you can bring anyone you like._

It’s followed by no less than four rainbow flag emojis. 

Arya understands why a lot of people clock her as a lesbian. She really does. It’s stupid, because not caring about clothes or hair has nothing to do with whether or not you want to dive face first into someone’s cunt (just look at Sansa) but people are stupid.

What really irks Arya is her own mother’s insistence on “support” no matter how many times Arya explains that she _is_ straight, actually, it’s just that men are generally stupid.

Arya has considered just bringing a male friend to shut her mother up, but Cat knows Arya’s been completely platonic friends with Hot Pie and Lommy and Micah her entire life, she’d never buy it.

Even if Arya did something like kiss them.

Which, ew.

Okay, Micah isn’t bad looking, but he’s also dating a hideously controlling girl who would probably shank Arya in the bathroom for kissing him, even if it meant nothing.

Plus Micah’s kinda feminine-looking, for a guy. Her mother has explained Arya’s childhood crush on him as a “safe space” to explore her “confusing sexuality.” 

Arya’s sexuality is not now, and has never been, confusing.

What she needs is someone her mother doesn’t know. Someone undoubtedly masculine. Manly. Without a girlfriend who will kill Arya for needing help. Attractive enough that Arya won’t completely fail at pretending to date them. Nice enough that Arya won’t punch them.

Arya slams the hood of her car down with more force than is necessary. 

She’s sliding her credit card over to Gendry when it hits her. 

“And you need a fake date for this party, why, exactly?” he asks after she blurts out her request. 

“Because I do.” Arya starts tossing the stuff Jon helped her bring over to the garage into the car. Jumper cables. Spare hunting gear. Blankets. Small tool kit. Emergency kit. Emergency clothes. Emergency snacks. Emergency sword. “You gonna help me or not?”

“Yeah, if I’m being your fake date, I think I deserve an explanation.” 

Arya wishes Gendry wasn’t tall enough to loom so efficiently.

Arya reverently places her CD binder under the front passenger seat, putting the visor CD holder with her current selection of favorites on the driver’s side. 

“My mother’s wrong about stuff and she won’t believe me,” Arya finally answers.

“Stuff,” Gendry repeats. “What stuff?”

“Stuff about me.”

“Like … bad stuff? You need alibi? You have a secret life? You’re pregnant?” Gendry’s eyes get wide. “Oh no, I’ve met your father, I’m not being your fake baby daddy.”

“I’m not pregnant!” Arya shouts it loud enough that one of the Lannister cousins getting their oil changed probably heard. Great. That’ll be all over town by noon. Arya Stark, knocked up. 

“So ….” Gendry looks at her expectantly. 

“She thinks I’m a lesbian,” Arya finally says, glaring at him.

Which does not deter Gendry from laughing so hard he almost starts crying. 

“Have you tried telling her you’re not?” Gendry suggests, when he finally recovers enough to speak. 

“Yes, you idiot.” Arya snatches her keys back from him. “I’ve told her a lot. She thinks I’m in denial or in the closet or something.”

“So you need a fake date.”

“I need a fake date,” Arya confirms. “Preferably one who is manly enough that my mother can’t mistake it as an effort to ‘sublimate my supposed desires in a socially acceptable relationship’.” 

Gendry starts laughing again. 

“You think I’m manly?” 

Arya is pretty sure she sees him flex his arms a little when he says it, and rolls her eyes. 

“Look,” she says. “Are you going to do it or not?”

Gendry’s grin is slow and easy.

“Well first, we have to talk terms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Arya's avoidance of romance comes in part from her parents rather traditional marriage. She has no desire to turn into a housewife type, and she's willing to be alone to make sure it doesn't happen.


	29. I've Got All I Need (It's Alright By Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha tries not to freak out about how much she's not freaking out about dating Val.

Asha is in the middle of a lovely dream involving pirates and a chest of gold when she’s ripped out of her dreamscape into reality by two blocks of ice being placed firmly on her legs.

She screams and shoves backwards. Val hits the floor on the other side of the bed, laughing like a loon.

“Get your icicle feet off me!” Asha demands, unnecessarily, since she has already removed the problem. 

Val waggles her toes before hauling herself up and crawling back into bed. She’s still in the fleece-y leggings and the oversized flannel she wears to bed. Asha would prefer her girlfriend wear nothing at all, but Val’s commitment to sustainable living extends to avoiding fossil fuels, and a wood stove does not give enough heat for naked sleeping in December. 

“But you’re such a good foot warmer,” Val says, kissing Asha’s neck. “What else will I do when I’m so cold from morning chores?”

“Everyone fed?” Asha keeps telling Val she can help with the early morning care, but Val insists on letting her sleep.

“And ice chipped off the water,” Val confirms. She hooks her leg around Asha’s, cold even through the flannel pants Asha is wearing. It’s warming up slowly, though, Val must have stoked the wood stove back into life. “Might look at slaughtering one of the pigs soon, for Christmas. Start some of the cuts curing for later in the year.” 

“Mmm, we could make pancetta.” Asha snuggles back against Val. “I hate driving an hour to buy it.”

Asha’s grandparents are probably rolling in their graves at that, but keeping kosher is overrated in Asha’s opinion. Or maybe she just really likes bacon.

“Next year I’m thinking of getting ducks,” Val says. “Maybe turkeys too.” 

“Duck eggs are nice.” Asha tries not to feel alarmed at the fact that they’re talking about next year’s livestock.

Actually, what’s more alarming is that Asha isn’t alarmed, not really. Not even after spending more nights at Val’s than Asha thinks she’s spent anywhere, once they finally started fucking. Enough nights that Asha knows all the routines of the little homestead, the animal feeding and the stoking of the wood stove and the quirks of the solar power system that powers the few appliances Val has. Asha knows when to use the well water and when to use the rain barrels, and what special soaps and shampoo can be used so the greywater waste can be repurposed in the garden. 

Asha’s relationships are not — well, Asha doesn’t have relationships. That’s the thing. The closest would be Sansa Stark, and that was really a sort-of friend she’s known for years who Asha happened to fuck.

Several years later, Asha is still vaguely surprised her mostly-joking pickup attempt worked on Robb’s prissy sister, but it was absolutely worth it. 

But now Asha is staying at Val’s enough nights that she knows the routine of the sleepy homestead. Enough that Asha can’t deny that Val is her girlfriend, not just a one-off or casual thing. Enough that Asha is becoming used to spending the rare time both of them have off doing farm chores or cooking or reading instead of slouching on the couch watching repeats of reality TV with a frozen dinner.

“Do you need to take care of yours?” Val’s voice pulls Asha back. 

“Theon will do it.” Asha does feel a pang of regret thinking of her dogs. They’re a rather bedragged, motley crew but she does miss them. If Asha’s honest, the best part of her and Theon’s reality TV marathons was always the way most of the pack would come curl around them. 

But Theon is perfectly capable of keeping the dogs fed and watered and letting them out. Even when he’s stoned off his ass. Val’s homestead requires much more work and will fall apart if someone isn’t there to take care of it. Even for just a day.

“You should bring them here when you stay.” Val slips a hand, now warm, under Asha’s top, tracing lines on her stomach. “It’s not fair that you have to leave them.”

“Anne Bonney will try to eat your chickens,” Asha says, bracing herself for the feeling of panic sure to follow. 

Bringing the dogs over is not a casual relationship thing. Even if they all go back home later.

“I have fences,” Val says. 

“Bartholomew snores,” Asha warns her. “And Jack Sparrow takes up half the bed on his own.” 

“That’s okay,” Val says, sliding her hand lower. “We’ll just need to stay close enough to share what’s left.”

Asha gasps when Val’s cold fingers slide along her, finding her clit with unerring accuracy. 

“And then you could stay more than one night at a time,” Val says, fingers moving in tight circles that have Asha whining. 

“Is that so?” Asha manages to say, pressing her hips up into Val’s touch. Val’s fingers are a little calloused, a little dry and rough and it feels so good.

Val hums something vaguely affirmative against Asha’s neck. Asha thinks she should be insulted that Val is using sex to talk her into moving closer to commitment but it’s very difficult to care when pleasure is building in the pit of her stomach, spreading out in slow waves. 

Val kisses Asha’s neck, stroking gently and drawing the sensations out until Asha feels herself letting go, the world narrowing to the feeling of Val’s fingers and the pulse of sensation through her entire body. 

They both drift off to sleep then, after Val wraps her arms around Asha and holds her firmly in place. Only waking up hours later when the cabin is warm and sunlight stronger where it comes through the windows. The chickens aren’t laying so there are no eggs, but Val makes oatmeal with fresh goat milk and strawberry basil jam while Asha makes coffee and ignores the way her phone is buzzing. It means she’s late for work again, but right now Asha can’t bring herself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super thanks to ladybugbear2 who is toiling away at my backlog of prompts. She's the real MVP of this fic.
> 
> Also, thanks to everyone who is reading and commenting. I've been struggling a little lately, emotionally (this current timeline is a dumpster fire) and fic has been a big part of how I'm coping. Seeing comments and realizing I can bring at least a little happiness to people is incredibly amazing and is a huge help. You all are the best.


	30. Just Me And A Cup Of Hot Sleepytime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne isn't sick. Really. She isn't.

Brienne is not sick. She’s not. She’s going to keep repeating that fact until her body believes it to be true as well if she has to. 

There are too many things to be done. Brienne’s finished the morning shift at the shelter, leaving volunteers in charge. They can’t finalize adoptions, but they can help anyone select a pet and schedule a follow up appointment for when Asha or Brienne are there.

There are still a lot of patients left to be seen. Brienne and Asha need to work out a better solution; one of them at the clinic and one at the shelter had seemed reasonable, when they came up with a schedule, but it’s not working. Already they’ve moved to having two days a week with both of them at the vet’s office, and it isn’t enough. 

Brienne sneezes into the corner of her arm, narrowly avoiding dropping the vial of blood from a nervous cat that’s getting screened for FIV and feline leukemia. 

“You’re sick.” Asha is flipping through a chart, looking annoyed at something. “Go home.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” 

“I am.” Brienne steps over to the cages for pets staying overnight and looks in on Snark and Grumpkin. They aren’t the only shelter pets in for spaying and neutering, but Brienne is getting attached — she’s nervous about their adoption and wants to keep an eye on them. 

Brienne _really_ doesn’t think the pretty rich man knows what he’s getting into with pet ownership. 

“Admit you have a cold and I’ll even get you soup,” Asha counters. 

Brienne sneezes again. “I have surgery this afternoon and a patient to see.” 

Asha is still grumbling when Brienne gets to the exam room. The Siamese cat she’s examining is beautiful and mostly patient as Brienne checks her over and confirms the feline’s general good health. Tyene Sand, on the other hand, backs into a corner and glares when Brienne sneezes into her elbow. 

“I have a cold,” Brienne admits, after Tyene is checked out and on her way.

“No shit.” Asha looks unimpressed. “Go. Home.”

“I have four surgeries this afternoon.” Brienne looks over the charts.

“I’ll call and reschedule them.” 

Brienne would like to argue, but she’s interrupted by a coughing fit that shakes her entire body.

“You can’t do surgery like this,” Asha points out. 

“Wun Wun needs to come in today,” Brienne finally gets out. “Mr. Tully’s already upset about how much he’s marking.”

“Then I’ll do that one.” Asha takes the folders out of Brienne’s hands. “You’re no good to anyone like this.”

Brienne knows when to admit defeat. Home is starting to sound good, and she’s honestly beginning to feel a little sad that Asha was joking about the soup. Soup sounds very good right now. 

Besides, Brienne tells her body, she’ll feel better tomorrow.

Brienne drags herself home, not even bothering to stop at the pharmacy, because once she admits she’s sick, it seems to hit her all at once. By the time she gets in the door, she has just enough energy to take off her shoes and collapse on her couch.

So Brienne’s surprised when she wakes up to the sound of soft music and the smell of garlic wafting from her kitchen. 

Brienne must make some noise, because Sansa pops into the doorframe, looking sympathetic. Her red hair is gathered in a messy ponytail and she’s wearing an apron that Brienne definitely doesn’t own. 

Brienne tries to ask what’s going on, but all that comes out is a painful gurgle. 

“Asha called me,” Sansa says, correctly interpreting the noise. “Well, Asha called Theon, and Theon called Robb, and Robb called me. But same thing. We really need to make sure we all have each other’s personal contact information, not just work.”

Brienne raises her eyebrows. 

“Anyway, she said you were pretty sick, so I stopped by the store for supplies and I’m making you some soup!” 

With that, Sansa vanishes back into the kitchen. Brienne glances over at the coffee table to see that it’s now covered with boxes and bottles of medication, several boxes of herbal tea and a giant box of Kleenex. 

It’s the first time in years anyone has taken care of Brienne when she was sick, but she still hasn’t had all of her questions answered. She gathers the blanket around her shoulders and shuffles into the kitchen, trying not to trip over Honor, who is winding between her feet as soon as she heads that way. Probably in hopes that she’ll get fed.

Sansa is setting the kettle on the stove when Brienne comes in, Goldenhand the Just watching intently from the floor, his fluffy tail swishing gently back and forth. 

“How did you get in?” Brienne manages to croak, though it makes her throat feel like it’s on fire. 

Sansa looks over from where she’s stirring a bubbling pot, a slightly guilty expression on her face. 

“Your landlord is old friends with my mom. He took my word for it when I said we were friends.” 

Brienne frowns. Sansa _is_ her friend, but Baelish really shouldn’t give out her key so easily. 

“Anyway, back to the couch, you!” Sansa hustles Brienne back to the sofa, reappearing shortly after with a cup of tea to insist Brienne take some cold meds. Glory wobbles his way over and claws a path up the couch to cuddle. Brienne pets his black fur, enjoying the way Glory starts purring almost instantly.

“Baelish is creepy,” Sansa says, when she returns with a steaming bowl of soup. It smells delightful. “I’m sorry you have to deal with him.”

Brienne shrugs. She really just avoids the man for the most part, other than paying rent. Or if something breaks that she can’t fix – or learn to fix, given how miserable Baelish gets when having to deal with maintenance. 

“This is my favorite when I’m sick” Sansa says, gesturing at the bowl. “Garlic soup.”

It’s surprisingly delicious, considering Brienne has never heard of garlic soup before, thick and fragrant, served over a thick slice of bread. She’s scraping the bottom of the bowl quickly, which makes Sansa beam. 

“I’ve made enough for a couple meals,” Sansa says. “But I’ll come back tomorrow? How do you feel about chicken noodle?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is me some times. I CANNOT BE SICK UNTIL AFTER THIS DEADLINE BODY SO YOU WILL WAIT.


	31. One Is Silver And The Other Gold*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen meets Sansa at the yarn shop.
> 
> *Previously un-posted, all new content!*

Shireen is browsing through the yarn store, trying to decide if she wants her next set of accessories to be cream or lavender — she’s already done pale blue and sage green to match the pink coat she wears most often — when she notices someone staring at her.

It’s a reflex to reach up and pat her hair, make sure it’s still pulled down over her cheek, but it’s fine. The gesture seems to shake the other woman out of her thoughts, though.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “But are you Shireen Baratheon?”

“Yes?”

The woman does look vaguely familiar, but she’s definitely not someone Shireen knows. 

“You know my brother, Rickon.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Sansa.”

Shireen goes through the motions of shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, while trying to figure out what Rickon possibly might have said to his sister. Or rather, how much Rickon might have said. 

Sansa is pulling her towards some couches, and settling down. Shireen goes back to contemplating her yarn, politely, while Sansa kisses Margaery hello. It’s nice to see Margaery light up, but Shireen isn’t terribly comfortable with public displays of affection.

Despite her own recent indiscretions.

“Rickon couldn’t stop talking about you,” Sansa says. “Well, for Rickon, anyway.”

“Oh?”

“I was a little surprised,” Sansa continues. “He said you remind him of me, which is not usually what I’d expect about the girls he meets, but I see what he means.”

Shireen looks over. Sansa is taller than her, prettier, with long red hair... but then Shireen takes in the sweater she’s wearing, white with blue snowflakes on the yoke, the wide-legged ice blue pants, the sparkly white knit hat still pulled over her hair, and yeah, okay. Shireen sees it. 

“How did you two meet?” Sansa asks, apparently unbothered by Shireen’s inability to form a response.

“I’m a teacher.” Shireen takes the cup of tea Sansa pours and hands her. “Brynden Tully leads a tree walk for the class each fall, but he was sick and sent Rickon.”

“Uncle Brynden sent _Rickon_? To work _with children_?”

“It wasn’t too bad.” Shireen sips her tea. “He only said fuck five or six times.”

Sansa buries her face in her hands. “Oh no, oh god, I am so sorry.”

“It really was fine. Even if he did climb trees with them. Actually, that was good too, he was really great helping Jory — one of my students, he has cerebral palsy, he uses braces. Rickon helped him join in, too, Jory hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

It’s really made Shireen more mindful about making sure Jory doesn’t get left out. Although she can’t lift him as easily as Rickon could, so it’s not always possible to include him as fully as she’d like. 

“Oh, that’s because of Bran.” Sansa pauses to take a bite of her lemon bar, a look of bliss on her face. “One of our brothers. He’s been in a wheelchair since he was ten. We’re all used to helping him get around when it’s needed. Rickon’s always hated seeing him left out.”

“It was very sweet.”

They move on to yarn colors, discussing the pros and cons of Shireen’s options. Shireen really likes the cream, but it is hard to keep clean and she does work with small children. Sansa is debating over yarn for a baby sweater for a friend in Yi Ti, weighing the washability of acrylic versus the fire risk. 

“I mean, baby melting is probably less likely than wanting to throw it in the washing machine,” Shireen offers. “On a daily basis.”

Sansa laughs out loud.

“You’re not like Rickon’s usual friends,” Sansa says. “It’s — it’s good.’

“I’m not sure we’re friends,” Shireen hedges.

“Or dates,” Sansa adds. Shireen knows she turns red. “I’m not sure we’ll be that either.”

Something in her tone must be off, because Sansa gives her a hard look.

“Okay, what dumb-ass thing did my little brother do now?” 

“He didn’t do anything,” Shireen says. Not anything she hadn’t wanted, anyway. “Like you said, I’m different from his usual friends. I don’t know if he’d even want to see me again.”

If he’s not thinking how easy she is, to let him grope her in a bar. Or thinking she’s a tease for letting him grope her and not fucking him after. 

Or maybe it’s not even a big deal to him and he doesn’t even remember it.

“No, that’s the tone of a woman my brother’s done something incredibly stupid to,” Sansa says. “I know that tone. I’ve heard it a lot.”

“It’s fine,” Shireen says. 

“Did he do something inappropriate? Do you need me to hurt him? Well, I can’t, but Arya definitely can and she’ll do it if he was an asshole.” Sansa looks like she fully means it. 

“It wasn’t any more inappropriate than I agreed to,” Shireen finally says, carefully considering her words. 

Sansa looks scandalized. Margaery, who has finished up with her latest customer and wandered back over, looks delighted.

“Shireen! You’re being inappropriate?” Margaery sits down on the nearest chair, leaning forward with wide eyes. “Tell me _everything_.”

“She wasn’t, Rickon was,” Sansa says, but that just makes it worse.

“Inappropriate with Rickon?” Margaery looks like Christmas has come early. “Even better.”

“It wasn’t inappropriate!” Shireen feels like she’s losing the battle for discretion here. “He just got a little handsy is all.”

Margaery squeals. Sansa sighs.

“It’s fine, it’s just not like me, and anyway, I haven’t seen him since then.” Shireen forces herself to keep her tone cheerful. “He’s probably forgotten all about it.”

“I doubt it.” Sansa grabs Shireen’s hand. “I really haven’t heard him talk this way about a girl before, and that’s why I was so excited to realize it was you.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard Rickon talk about any of his girls before,” Margaery says. 

Shireen wonders how many girls, exactly, Rickon has … had. Dated. Whatever.

“He’s a decent guy, underneath it all.” Sansa sounds fond, if exasperated. “He likes to try to be tough and scary, but he is a good person. And he could use someone who would appreciate that.”

Shireen also appreciates the tough and scary part, but that’s probably not a conversation to have with Rickon’s sister. Or anyone, because there’s not actually anything going on. 

“You should give him a chance,” Sansa says. 

Shireen sighs. “I doubt he’ll still be interested.” She offers a weak smile. “But I am glad we got to meet.”

There’s not much to say after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it help to note which of these are previously unposted? Chapter 58 is where we'll hit all new from there on out content, but there are a few stray chapters slipped in amongst the prompt fills in the meantime.


	32. Deck The Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is excited to decorate for the town Christmas party, but what is going on with her oldest brother?

“You sure that’s enough mistletoe?” Sansa stares up, hands on her hips. 

The ceiling of the parish hall is covered in mistletoe. So much that Sansa thinks it might be impossible to move without being underneath it. 

Which could be a problem for the flow of people through the party, but that’s not Sansa’s main concern right now.

Robb looks down from the top of the ladder, yet another sprig of mistletoe clutched in his hand.

“You’re right,” he says. “I think there’s an empty patch over by the window.” 

“Robb!”

Sansa catches her brother’s arm as he steps off the lowest rung of the ladder. Robb grips the mistletoe tighter.

“This is ridiculous.” Sansa takes the mistletoe from his hand and shares a look with Margaery, who is wrangling garland with a man Sansa assumes is her brother, and guides Robb to a mostly empty corner. “What is going _on_ with you??”

“I’m decorating for the party?” Robb tries for innocent, and misses by a wide margin. 

The town Christmas party is meant to be hosted by all four of the big families in town. Supposedly the six, before the Targaryens and Martells moved away after some big drama, but Sansa doesn’t remember that time. 

Although Oberyn Martell has returned, he hasn’t really been too interested in being involved with town activities. At least, not that Sansa has seen.

This year, however, her parents' generation has unanimously decided to pass the duty on to their adult children. Or at least the practical parts, since they’re still providing financial support. 

Which in reality, Sansa is finding out means herself, Robb, and some Tyrells. At least so far. The Baratheons have been out for a while — Robert was crazy before he was dead and Stannis fucked off to the weird fundie church, that hates dancing and music and alcohol and anything fun ever but especially during Christmas, years ago, then to some cult and now to nothing — and the Lannisters were never much involved to start. Which is a shame, because Sansa would really like to see the handsome cat adopter again and collect some intel. 

Specifically, how he feels about Brienne. 

“What’s up with the weird mistletoe obsession?” Sansa shakes a sprig at Robb’s face for emphasis. 

“It’s festive?” 

“Robb.” Sansa can see Margaery and her brother take the ladder and start removing mistletoe, leaving a slightly-more-than-reasonable but still sane amount. She also sees Margaery shove some in her pocket, before giving Sansa a wink.

The other two Tyrell brothers take up the garland, winding it around the walls. 

“I may have messed up with Talisa.” Robb rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “We … hooked up.”

“Then you don’t need mistletoe.” Sansa shoves the sprig she’s holding at Margaery as she goes past with the ladder. Margeary pauses to kiss Sansa as she does, proving the point nicely. 

“Well…” Robb sounds embarrassed.

“What did you do?” 

“Oh look, the tree, I’ll see if they need help.” Robb takes off to the door where some delivery people are bringing in the large pine. 

Margaery wraps her arms around Sansa. “That much mistletoe does give us some nice excuses.”

“It also means we’re caught under it with literally everyone in town,” Sansa points out. “Including our families. And Baelish.”

“Okay, ew.” Margaery kisses Sansa again. “This is Loras, by the way.” 

The man with the ladder gives a little wave, looking terribly unimpressed. Sansa is pretty sure he’s the one she’s seen at the yarn shop. “Marge, we _are_ supposed to be working.”

“You’re just mad Renly isn’t here.” But Margaery disentangles herself and heads off again. 

Sansa carts the box of lights over to the tree and starts handing them to Robb before he can escape. 

“Why is hooking up with Talisa a bad thing?” 

Robb looks at the string of lights as if it holds the secret to life. “I may not have been entirely broken up with Roslin at the time.”

“Robb!!”

“I was trying!”

“You can’t be partially broken up with someone.” Sansa loops the lights around the tree, trying to space them evenly. “It’s like being pregnant, you either are or you aren’t.” 

“I told her we were done.” Robb runs a hand through his hair. His auburn curls stick up in all directions. “She just refused to hear it and then she walked in and —”

“SHE WALKED IN ON YOU?”

“Not during. After.” Robb sighs. “And then she yelled and Talisa yelled and now neither of them are speaking to me.”

“And now if you need a car, you’re going to have to go to the next town over.” No way Old Walder will sell to Robb now. 

“Anyway, I’m hoping to —”

“Trick her into kissing you and somehow sweep her off her feet with your magical sex abilities?” Sansa raises an eyebrow. 

Robb shrugs sheepishly. 

“You need to talk to her, Robb.” 

Sansa peeks around the tree as the doors open. Shireen Baratheon steps in, looking uncertain, her hair windblown under her fuzzy white hat. She’s with a tall, handsome man with a short beard. He must be Renly, because Loras bounds up to him and greets him with a very enthusiastic kiss.

Sansa waves Shireen over. 

“In the meantime, let me make your day. Remember that girl Rickon was talking about?” 

The face Robb makes when Shireen introduces herself is the funniest thing Sansa has seen in weeks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Robb. Robb is definitely a romantic dumbass in this. Sorry Robb, but it's canon.


	33. Christmas Party Hop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Christmas party hasn't happened yet and it's already a disaster.

“Damn. The heating’s broken.” Father Meribald looks over the parish hall. Ice and frost are gathering in the windows. 

“It’s completely gone,” Mother Donyese confirms. She has a wrench in her hand and a smear of grease on her forehead as she emerges from the basement. “I’ll call the Mormonts, but there’s no way we’ll be ready to go for the party.” 

“We can’t cancel.” Sansa feels a vague sense of hysteria rising in her.

Margaery shifts closer, burying her nose in Sansa’s collar. “It’s freezing, what are we going to do?”

“It’s our first year in charge, we can’t fail.” Sansa looks around the hall they’d decorated just yesterday, all the ribbons and lights carefully arranged.

“This isn’t your fault.” Father Meribald’s voice is gentle. “I’m sure everyone will understand.” 

“But it’s the town party.” Sansa isn’t going to cry, she _isn’t_. It’s just that this is the best town tradition and it happens every year and now it’s _ruined_. 

“Well, what are we going to do?” One of Margaery’s brothers (not Loras, but Sansa doesn’t know the other’s names) speaks up. “There isn’t anywhere else big enough to hold everyone.” 

“We could ask Pastor Sparrow.” Mother Donyse doesn’t sound like she has much hope for that working out. The hall at First Mountain Church of the Redeemed is probably big enough to hold everyone but the odds of Sparrow letting in such frivolity are … low.

“What about downtown?” Margaery lifts her head long enough to offer the idea.

Everyone looks at her like she’s gone insane.

“It’s even colder outside,” Robb says. Or at least, that’s what Sansa thinks he says. It’s hard to tell through the several layers of scarf wrapped around his face. 

“Not outside. Inside.” Margaery looks annoyed at having had to expose her face to the cold air again. 

“The shops,” Loras fills in, a look of understanding crossing his face. “People could open them up like open houses, it would be good for all the new ones.”

“Arryn _has_ been trying to get more interest in downtown,” Father Meribald says. 

“Doesn’t Tarly’s have those outdoor heat lamps?” the third Tyrell brothers asks. “We could set them up in between.”

“Littlefinger’s might have some too,” Robb says. “And maybe Evenfall?” 

“We could move the decorations and add them to the stores.” Sansa considers it. “And to what’s already set up downtown.”

“Can we do it in time, though?” Mother Donyse looks skeptical.

Robb is pulling out his phone. “We can if I call mom.” 

It seems like the entire town comes out to help, once Sansa’s mother starts calling people she knows. Sansa helps take down decorations, with freezing fingers — made less cold by cups of hot chocolate and coffee Mance brings over from Wildling’s — and distributes them. Margaery and Loras start chatting up the business owners that line the main strip in town, while Robb helps with the tree and other large items. 

Almost all of the downtown businesses agree to stay open and allow people to come in. Most are excited to set up displays, as well. There’s a slight hitch when Tyene Sand at Happy Endings is overly enthusiastic and has to be talked down from a display full of sex toys in full view. 

The final compromise is a small offering of safe sex kits and a more elaborate display behind a curtain. Which is almost entirely sheer, but it at least gives parents some delusion that their children won’t see or ask about what’s set up on the table. 

Sansa doesn’t know what some of the things are on the table _herself_ , frankly, and she’s not entirely sure she wants to. 

Surely nobody needs anything _that_ big to go … well. Nevermind. 

Most of the other stores are much more reasonable. Even Lannister’s bank agrees to open up the lobby, much to Sasna’s surprise. The only holdouts are Balon’s Barbers and The Iron Crown. Balon’s because Balon has important plans to get falling down drunk, and The Iron Crown because Stannis Baratheon hates fun ever since he and his (now ex) wife joined Sparrow’s church. 

Everyone even agrees to offer refreshments, particularly once Cat and the rest of the party funders offer a financial stipend for supplies. 

There are just enough heat lamps to line the streets between stores. It’s not exactly warm, but it cuts the cold just enough to stop people from avoiding moving between shops. 

By the time Sansa is carting over the last load of greenery and mistletoe, everyone seems to be really into decorating. Asha and Brienne are setting up a selection of portable cages with some of the harder-to-adopt pets at the front of the vet’s office, and Tysha from Sew What is helping Val make what appears to be a wreath out of stray nuts and bolts held together with ribbon. Most of the stores are putting up themed displays, although the extent to which they are _Christmassy_ varies. (Sansa doesn’t think swords are festive, but, if his antique weaponry display is any indication, Syrio disagrees.) 

The owner of the new gym seems to be constructing a Christmas tree entirely out of hand weights, which is, not exactly typical? But fine. Sansa hands him some bows and sprig of mistletoe to decorate it. 

If nothing else, this will definitely be a town party to remember. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sansa, she's a little stressed out.


	34. Underneath The Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Westeros town Christmas party is definitely eventful.

Brienne’s plans to avoid the town holiday party are dashed by the change in venue. Still, she plans to man the open vet’s office instead of joining the festive crowds. 

The party seems to be going well, despite the last minute changes. People are strolling down the sidewalks, ducking into the various shops and taking whatever they’re offering for holiday cheer. They’re even getting a lot of people at the vet’s office, despite being at the very end of the downtown district. 

For their offering, Brienne and Asha have set out a display of dog treats for anyone bringing their pets, as well as handouts on what holiday decorations are safe for cats and dogs. Plus they’ve set up the cages of some of the harder-to-adopt animals from the shelter, adorned with Sansa’s festive bows and ornaments. They’ve gotten quite a bit of interest from people stopping by, though Brienne makes it clear they’ll have to set up an official appointment at the shelter before adopting.

Across the street, Sunspear Salon is bustling, and Brienne has ventured over a few times already for a cup of hot wassail. Brienne isn’t entirely sure what wassail is, but it’s very delicious and very warm. And the cookies from Seven Sisters next door are delicious, cinnamon and sugar melting in her mouth. 

Everything from Seven Sisters is good, really. Brienne’s surprised she hasn’t gained 20 pounds just from working next door and giving in to temptation far too often.

A burst of cold air hits Brienne as the door flies open to admit Sansa and Asha, red-cheeked and smiling. Sansa is giggling and saying something about mistletoe. 

“Brienne!” Asha is uncharacteristically happy, reminding Brienne of the rare times in vet school that Asha had dragged her out to a party. She’s dressed up in a suit for the night, her blue tie askew. 

“Oh, you wore your new jumpsuit,” Sansa says. “I told you, it looks amazing.”

Asha had insisted Brienne dress up, if she was, in solidarity. Brienne was just relieved to have something in her closet that fit properly, and she owes Sansa for that. 

“We’ve had a lot of interest in the pets,” Brienne says. One of the smaller dogs barks at the sound of voices. 

“I’ll take over,” Asha declares. “Your turn.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Brienne shakes her head. “You two have fun.”

“Asha’s had plenty of fun,” Sansa says dryly. Asha hiccups, then grins again. “You deserve a chance to celebrate.”

“I don’t really do parties,” Brienne says. Sansa rolls her eyes.

“Everyone does parties,” Sansa says.

Brienne should know by now that Sansa won’t take that for an answer, and she finds herself being dragged to her feet. Which makes the room seem to sway a bit. Sansa giggles. Brienne blinks.

“Is there alcohol in this?” Brienne frowns at her cup of wassail. “The wassail?”

“From Obara’s?” Asha snorts. “Of course.” 

Maybe a walk and fresh air wouldn’t be a bad idea, to help clear her head. Brienne lets Sansa lead her out of the office, looking down the block to where the crowds are bigger near the square. Sansa links their arms together, pulling Brienne close. Her sparkly skirt brushing against Brienne’s legs as they walk. 

“We’ll have to stop everywhere,” Sansa declares. “It’s so amazing how almost everyone has gotten involved.” 

Everyone really has. Brienne doesn’t know too many people in Westeros yet, but she sees faces she recognizes as they stop in the bookstore to look over the display and munch on some cheese and crackers. Down the street, she spots her neighbor ducking into Littlefinger’s which is offering dollar Christmas shots.

Shireen isn’t sure what constitutes a Christmas shot, but she’s happy to let Missy drag her in and find out. Especially when she’s already pleasantly buzzed and warm from several glasses of Dr. Sand’s mulled wine and Oberyn’s coquito. 

“Milk and cookies!” Shireen snatches one from the tray of shots. “I have to try that.” 

Missy is reaching for a candy cane shooter, eying the peppermint crusted rim of the glass. “I’ll pass on that. Milk and booze isn’t my thing.” 

“I’ll have Santa’s panties,” a familiar voice says from beside Shireen. “Or perhaps they’re Mrs. Claus’s.” 

Shireen tries, and fails, not to blush as she looks over to where Rickon is smirking down at her. Missy licks candy cane crumbs off her lips and grins. 

“What a coincidence, we’ve got our own Mrs. Claus right here,” Missy says, not-so-gently shoving Shireen closer to Rickon. 

Shireen’s red dress and white fur capelet had seemed like a good idea when she was getting ready, but now she’s wondering if it was wise. It’s not the first Mrs. Claus reference she’s gotten, especially since she took first shift at the school’s hot cocoa station, but it’s definitely the most inappropriate.

Shireen resolutely tries not to think about the fact that she’s put on festive red and white underwear that matches the dress.

“So it would seem.” Rickon’s eyes trace Shireen up and down. “I’m not sure I’m on her nice list, though.”

Shireen hasn’t seen him since the night of the concert and standing next to him again at LIttlefinger’s makes her remember the feel of Rickon’s hands running over her body. It sends a shiver down her spine. Shireen isn’t sure how she’s supposed to act in this situation. 

“Why wouldn’t you be?” she manages to get out.

“Well, the last time I saw her, she ran off,” Rickon says, not quite looking Shireen in the eye. “I might owe her an apology.”

Shireen bites her lip. Missy looks between the two of them with undisguised curiosity.

“Maybe not an apology,” Shireen says. She studies the tray of shots. “Maybe she just needed things to go a little bit slower.” 

“So I’m not doomed to coal in my stocking forever?”

Shireen glances over at Rickon. He’s staring at her, an intense look in his eyes. “Definitely not.” 

Shireen can feel her pulse beating as Rickon hands her a shot, clinking his shot glass against hers (red and white, like her dress and coincidentally also like her — well, Shireen isn’t thinking about that) and offering a “Merry Christmas.”

Shireen’s shot tastes mostly like cream and cinnamon. Rickon is smirking again when she sets her glass down.

“You’ve got a milk mustache,” Rickon tells her. But before Shireen can wipe it off, Rickon is bending down and running his thumb over her lip before kissing her. 

Rickon is warm and solid and the feel of his mouth against hers makes Shireen shudder. She wraps her arms around his neck without thinking, running one hand over the muscles of his shoulder. The way she’s wanted to since the first time she laid eyes on him.

When they part for breath, Shireen can’t help grinning up at Rickon, even as Missy claps excitedly behind them. 

Shireen has to let go of Rickon’s shoulders so he can stand up straight again, but he takes her hand as they head out, and presents her with one of the white carnations Ros is handing out at Blushing Blooms. He also insists she gets one of the temporary tattoos Davos is doing at Stolen Ink, sipping hot buttered rum while they wait. 

“It’ll look good,” Rickon says, running a hand over her calf, as they debate where she should get hers done. “Very festive.” 

Festive isn’t exactly what Shireen is feeling right now, but she’ll go with it as she watches the crowds move through, carolers singing outside the gym where a tiny blond woman is laughing up at the extremely well-built owner.

Dany thinks she’s seen more people at Dragon’s Egg tonight than she has since opening. Hopefully they’ll return — several people have already commented on how much more convenient it will be than driving to the next town over. 

A new business takes time, she reminds herself. She waves at Varys, who is presiding over the Weekly Spyder office, undoubtedly trying to catch any gossip he can, and grabs a popcorn ball from him before taking a walk. 

The problem with owning a store is that she never has time to visit any of the neighbors when they’re open. It should be easier, though, now that she’s hired Daario, and tonight will be a good test of how he does alone with the store. 

He’s definitely helpful when it comes to stocking, and that’s a relief for Dany’s back if nothing else. 

The mini pies (Dany tries the mince and the pumpkin) from Fat Walda’s are definitely excellent, the Christmas Tree shots at Littlefinger’s are definitely not, but Dany thinks the best thing may be finally visiting Vaes Dothrak. 

“You made a Christmas tree out of weights?” Dany can’t help laughing as she looks up at Drogo. If she thought he was handsome in sweats, then putting him in tight jeans and a well-fitted green shirt should be illegal. 

Dany wants to unbutton every single button with her teeth.

“It’s holiday cheer,” Drogo says solemnly. “And you should try our gingerbread protein balls.” 

Dany’s nose wrinkles. “How do those pair with the Christmas tree shots?”

“They’re better with the hot buttered rum.” Drogo looms slightly over Dany, leaning his arm on the wall behind her head. “Did you know you’re standing under mistletoe?”

Dany grins.

“Is that so?” Before Drogo can move, she goes up on her toes and plants a kiss on his cheek. 

“That’s not a real kiss,” Drogo protests, as Dany ducks out from under his arm and heads back to the door. She makes sure the skirt of her sequined dress is as short as possible as she does. 

“If you want a real kiss, take me out to dinner first,” Dany calls over her shoulder, before heading back up the block towards the town square.

The heat lamps make it just warm enough to walk without a coat if you go quickly and avail yourself of some of the alcoholic drinks on offer. Dany takes a mini Christmas pudding from the Baratheon law office and chews thoughtfully as she passes the daycare, where a small blond boy is coloring very intensely on something while his father stands behind him in a Santa hat. Moving to Westeros is definitely one of her better ideas.

Jaime watches as Tommen carefully colors in the Christmas bookmark. He’s already finished one, but refuses to leave, carefully filling in the gingerbread men and candy canes on the second.

Myrcella is sighing loudly. She’s finished her drinking custard from the sewing store and sugared pecans from Syrio’s, but she’s refused to try Jaime’s roasted chestnuts, which the mayor is handing out at city hall. And she’s clearly bored. 

“Why can’t I go with my friends?” Myrcella asks for what Jaime thinks may be the twentieth time. 

“Because your friends don’t have an adult with them,” Jaime says, also for the twentieth time. 

“I’m 12, Uncle Jaime,” Myrcella argues. “I’m old enough to walk downtown.” 

“It’s very crowded, I’d prefer you be supervised,” is all Jaime says. He doesn’t mention the numerous businesses passing out alcoholic drinks, some of which seem to be doing a rather poor job of making sure minors don’t get any. Or the kids are doing a good job of getting older people to get drinks for them.

Either way, Jaime doesn’t want Myrcella to have any part in that. 

“Then can we just go?” Myrcella looks at the table. 

“When Tommen is finished.” 

Myrcella sighs again, but Jaime doesn’t really notice, because his attention is caught by a very tall blonde passing the door.

“Stay here,” Jaime says, and darts out. 

The cat wench is holding a cup of Martell’s coquito, which Jaime thinks could stop an elephant, there’s so much rum in it, and already flushed red in her cheeks. Between the red cheeks and the blue jumpsuit she’s wearing, her eyes look almost otherworldly. 

“I’m still getting my cats, right?” Jaime grins as Brienne scowls at him. The redhead from the shelter is clinging to her arm, looking even tipsier than Brienne.

“You’re set to pick them up next week.” 

“Well, I hadn’t heard anything.” Jaime follows the pair into Sand Snakes, helping himself to another cheesecake bar. “I thought you might have changed your mind.” 

“Have you changed yours?” Brienne’s voice is challenging. 

“Nope.” Jaime cocks his head, dialing up the charm. Brienne’s sullen expression doesn’t change. “I’m ready. 100 percent prepared for responsible cat ownership.” 

“How about responsible parenting?” the redhead is looking past Jaime. He turns to see Myrcella in front of Martell’s office, chatting with a dark-haired boy who looks much too old and holding a cup of something she’s definitely not supposed to be drinking. 

Jaime barely has time to tell the cat wench he’s looking forward to proving her wrong before he’s rushing out the door to his niece.

“MYRCELLA JOANNA BARATHEON put that down right now!” 

Sansa doesn’t miss the way Brienne’s cheeks get even redder when Lannister comes out to ask her about the cats. Or the way Lannister looks her up and down before speaking. 

“Someone wanted to talk to you,” Sansa says. Brienne shakes her head.

“He’s just being a jerk.” Brienne scowls as she follows Sansa into the school gym, where they’re handing out cocoa. The good kind. With marshmallows.

“I think he was trying to catch you under the mistletoe,” Sansa tells her. 

“Nobody wants to catch me under the mistletoe,” Brienne says. 

Sansa doubts that, especially as the red-headed, bearded man who is handing out cocoa bounds to his feet as they enter.

“My god you’re tall,” he says to Brienne, eyes going wide.

Sansa feels Brienne stiffen next to her. 

“Yes,” Brienne says curtly.

“Good shoulders too,” the man says. He’s practically licking his lips. “I haven’t seen you around, and I’d definitely remember a big woman like you. I’m Tormund. Tormund Giantsbane.”

Tormund waggles his eyebrows at the end of his statement, in a way that Sansa thinks is meant to be seductive. Brienne introduces herself through clenched teething, tugging Sansa backwards as they speak.

“I’m off shift in thirty minutes,” Tormund says, with a wink. “Find me under the mistletoe and I’ll make it a Christmas you’ll remember.”

“No,” Brienne says, as soon as they get outside, glaring down at Sansa. “Absolutely not.”

“It doesn’t have to be _him_ ,” Sansa says. She squints across the square, where a woman who looks like Arya is gripping a man’s arm in a very un-Arya like way. “But now you can’t say _nobody_ wants to kiss you.”

“Oh Gendry, you’re so strong,” Arya says in a mock falsetto voice, gripping Gendry’s bicep, before releasing it and shoving him backwards. “Is that what you want?”

Gendry laughs as he stumbles back, hitting the wall of Lannister’s Bank. “I’m just saying, if we ignore each other here, it’ll look awfully suspicious when you take me to your parent’s party.”

“Nobody’s watching us here,” Arya says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh? That’s not your sister then?” Gendry points.

Arya spins around to see Sansa staring right at them, arm in arm with some tall blonde woman Arya hasn’t met. She wonders if it’s Sansa’s new girlfriend or her new boss. The blonde looks awfully sullen to be hanging out with someone as bubbly as Sansa.

“And your other family members aren’t here?” Gendry asks.

“So?”

“So if you want to make our fake date believable, we should at least act like we’re friends,” Gendry says. 

Arya huffs out a breath. “Fine. What’s your plan?”

Gendry’s plan, as it turns out, is placing a very large, warm hand on the small of Arya’s back, as he guides her through the crowd (it feels hot even through her jumpsuit) and fetching her glasses of eggnog from Lannister’s and snacks from Tarly’s and Tyrell’s grocers.

“You have spinach in your teeth,” Arya tells him, as she steals another bacon-wrapped date from the plate. 

The lights on the buildings make it look like he turns red as he rubs at his teeth until the offending vegetable is gone. 

They stake out a spot in front of Balon’s, watching the people as they head in and out of the shops and offices. 

Arya thinks it’s going to be awkward, but it turns out Gendry likes football and martial arts, same as she does. He also seems interested in the things she’s learning about antique weapons from working at Syrio’s, even if Arya rambles on more than she should. 

The way Syrio talks about history, with all the items that come through his store, is way more interesting than anything Arya learned in school.

The time goes faster than Arya thinks, and Gendry keeps refusing to let her do anything, getting them cups of mulled wine and Christmas coffee when they start getting cold.

Arya does roll her eyes when he insists on walking her back to Syrio’s, as if she’s not a grown adult who can beat up men several times her size.

“It’s polite,” he says. Then he glances up at the lamp post. Arya follows his gaze.

“Mistletoe,” Arya says. “You don’t have —”

The kiss Gendry brushes against her lips is so quick Arya almost misses it. But it definitely happens, her lips tingling as Gendry straightens up and heads back down the street before she can yell at him.

It isn’t until Arya is inside, telling Syrio he can take his turn to go out and explore, that she notices Jon staring wide-eyed from across the street.

“I think I should take Gilly some tarts,” Sam says, as he comes out of Evenfall’s. “Do you think I should take her some tarts?”

“Why?” Jon takes one of the carmelized onion pastries Sam is holding and pops it in his mouth. They’re very good. It’s a good distraction while he’s trying to process what he just witnessed.

“She’s alone in the bakery.” Sam frowns down at his plate. “She won’t get to visit all the places.”

“Oh.” Jon swipes another tart and Sam pulls the plate away. 

“I think I’ll get her one of everything,” Sam decides, heading back into Evenfall’s.

That’s definitely Arya, scowling at customers and handing out sugared pecans. Definitely Arya, who was definitely just kissed by a man Jon doesn’t recognize.

And the man is unharmed, which is really the most surprising part.

Sansa is going to lose her mind when she finds out. Maybe Jon can trade her the info in exchange for her fixing the uniform patch that’s coming off his shirt. They’re supposed to be sewed on but Jon was hoping fabric glue would do the trick.

It doesn’t.

Sam guards his plate of treats carefully when he joins Jon again, insisting on taking things for Gilly at every stop. Which he also feels the need to tell everyone. Along with mentioning how nice Gilly is, and how good her bakery is, and how she’s just so friendly.

Jon isn’t sure how Sam is learning all this, because Jon and Sam seem to spend most of their time together and as far as Jon can tell, Sam hasn’t had very many actual _conversations_ with Gilly. Just spent a lot of time in the bakery eating pie and reading his comics while gazing longingly at her.

Still, he seems to be doing better romantically than some. In particular, better than Robb, who is holding his face where a petite brunette has slapped him and now seems to be yelling as they stand in front of the gazebo.

There’s an especially large bunch of mistletoe there and Jon remembers Sansa saying something about Robb being obsessed with the plant.

Clearly it’s not working out as planned. 

Jon wonders what the mistletoe situation is at Wildling’s as they head that way. He spies Ygritte is pouring cups of coffee, reindeer antler headband perched on her head. 

“Hey,” Jon says, awkwardly.

Ygritte just looks at him.

“So I realized I didn’t give you my number the other day,” Jon starts. “And I thought maybe …”

“Oh, you mean the day you ran out of my bed?” Ygritte is loud enough for several people to look up, and she’s staring hard at Jon.

“I didn’t run,” Jon says. He hopes Ygritte’s large and terrifying cousin isn’t around. “I had to work, I told you.”

Ygritte stares another minute, then breaks into a grin, laughing. 

“I’m just fucking with you.” She pulls a phone out of her apron and hands it over. 

Jon types in his number. “So, maybe we could go out sometime?”

“Maybe we could.” Ygritte looks considering. “You do know where to put it at least.”

Sam is still laughing when they leave, and Jon is almost as red as the blond Amazon he bumps into on the sidewalk. 

Brienne isn’t sure what’s happening tonight. It might be all the drinks — okay, it’s definitely all the drinks — but she’s also certain Sansa has something to do with it. Margaery has joined them, and Sansa insists on stopping at every sprig of mistletoe to kiss her girlfriend.

There is a _lot_ of mistletoe. 

That means they’ve moved at a snail’s pace, and Sansa seems to be trying to rope Margaery into her effort to get Brienne to kiss someone. Luckily for Brienne, the options have been lacking, though she does get a very polite kiss on the cheek from Sansa’s father after Sansa introduces the two of them and points to the mistletoe.

Brienne wonders if Sansa has been talking to Brienne’s father. Ever since they moved, he’s been going on a lot about clean slates and new people and new chances. 

New chances don’t mean better odds, Brienne knows. Westeros is a great place, and the people have certainly been kinder than the ones Brienne knew in Tarth, but that doesn’t mean Brienne is any prettier or more feminine.

Brienne munches a couple of carrot sticks from the Citadel clinic’s veggie wreath (still almost untouched) as Sansa sweeps Margaery backward into a kiss like you see in old movies. 

“Brienne, you should come to the New Year gala,” Margaery says as they explore the display at Reed’s Outdoor Emporium. The hiking backpacks are very nice. Brienne will have to come back and take a closer look later. 

The trail mix with dried cranberry is also tasty. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But it’s so much fun,” Sansa is giving her that look. The look that means that somehow, Brienne is going to end up going to the gala. “A lot of people would be interested in hearing about the shelter.”

“Then Asha can go.”

Margaery winces. 

“Asha is … banned.” 

Brienne’s eyebrows go up. “Banned?”

“Is that from the cake incident?” Sansa asks.

“No, the raccoon and champagne,” Margaery says. Sansa nods sagely. 

Brienne thinks it’s probably better not to ask, and instead to take a piece of fudge from the table at the very fancy law office they’ve stopped at.

That’s not to say Brienne isn’t curious about what Asha did, and that’s probably why she forgets to look up while she’s walking.

“Brienne,” Sansa sings, eyes twinkling. “I believe you’re under some mistletoe.”

Brienne’s hope that Sansa or Margaery is the person nearest to her — both would be awkward, but not humiliating — is dashed when a male voice to her right agrees with Sansa.

The man has red hair, though he’s thankfully not the redhead from the school. He’s taller and slimmer, clean shaven. And very handsome. 

“You don’t need to,” Brienne tells him. “My friends are just being silly.”

“Well it is tradition,” he says. He steps a little bit closer. “Unless I’m too terrible of an option.”

Brienne blurts out a no before she can think twice, and the man leans forward to kiss her before she can process any other escape routes. 

Brienne’s one and only kiss had been terrible — Hunt was pushy and sloppy and disgusting. This is better. The kiss is firm and definitely a kiss, but not pushy or overly long. But it isn’t like in books either — Brienne doesn’t feel like she’s lightheaded or walking on air. It’s just lips, a slight bit of warmth and pressure against Brienne’s own.

“I’m Addam,” the man says when he steps back, as Brienne backs away, flustered. “Maybe I’ll see you around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not gonna lie, I'm as pleased with this chapter on the second pass as I was initially. I tried to cram a lot in, and I just ... want to go to this party now.


	35. Make My Wish Come True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen isn't expecting a visitor.

Shireen is settling down with her second cup of tea and contemplating her list of chores when the doorbell buzzes. 

It’s not entirely unusual for delivery people to just hit all the buzzers until someone lets them in, so Shireen hits the code to open the door without saying anything. She’s a little startled, though, when there’s a knock on her door a few seconds later. 

Shireen is a lot startled when she sees Rickon Stark standing outside her door, hands behind his back. 

Shireen is suddenly very glad she’s changed into a comfortable sweater dress and leggings, and isn’t still wearing her pink alpaca onesie.

“How do you know where I live?” Okay, that’s probably not the _best_ greeting Shireen could offer but it’s the first one that comes out. 

“I asked Sansa. And she asked ….” Rickon scratches the back of his neck. “I don’t know, my sister just knows things. I could have asked you but I wanted it to be a surprise.” 

Shireen lets him in, noticing he still has one hand behind his back. Rickon stands by the door, tall and broad and black leather (and god he looks good in leather) looking so out of place in her little apartment decorated in pink and grey and a large collection of plants. 

Shireen knows her place isn’t the most sophisticated decor-wise, but she can’t resist doing all the things she wasn’t allowed to do as a child. Stringing up little white lights, hanging flowery curtains, displaying lots of plants and knicknacks all over the surfaces. Getting a big, furry, white rug and lots of throw pillows.

Missy has pointed out that it’s not exactly welcoming for men, which Shireen has countered by pointing out men aren’t exactly flocking to her place. And besides, Shireen isn’t going to live her life based on what some man, real or hypothetical, thinks about it. She’s finally got her own space, and she doesn’t have to live in the sparse, bare-bones room her parents thought would build character and discourage sinfulness. Or the slightly nicer but still minimalist bedroom her father let her have, containing the essentials but nothing frivolous.

“I like your tree,” Rickon says. He nods at the small live fir in the corner. The colored lights are lit up and Shireen has strung real popcorn and cranberries together for garland to go with the ornaments. They're mostly gifts from the kids she taught during her student teaching years. And a few from this year’s students.

Shireen wonders if it’s early enough that the lack of presents underneath is normal and not sad. Not that it will change all that much as the holiday gets closer.

“I’m going to plant it in the square after,” Shireen says. “If the mayor okays it.” 

“If not, you could plant it in the Gift. My uncle would help sort it out.” 

“Can I get you tea? Or um ….” Shireen tries to think about the contents of her refrigerator. “I think I just have tea.”

“I’m good.” Rickon looks around, then clears his throat. “I wanted to bring you something and, um, apologize, I guess?”

He pulls the hand out from behind his back and hands Shireen a pot with a bow on it. Shireen recognizes a golden beauty orchid, the pink and gold flowers already blooming. 

“It’s beautiful.” She runs a finger over the delicate petals. 

“You mentioned wanting to try orchids so …” Rickon trails off as Shireen shifts some of the plants in the bay window around to make room. It’s her favorite place to sit, in her grey chair with a cozy blanket and a book from the stack by her chair. 

If she puts the orchid there, she’ll see it every day.

“I wanted to apologize for … if I was too pushy.” Rickon looks very uncomfortable. “I mean, I thought you weren’t interested after the concert, but then last night and…”

Shireen remembers the conversation she had with Sansa, the way she implied that Rickon hasn’t had girls that stuck around very long. If at all.

Shireen doesn’t feel properly prepared to navigate this kind of discussion. She thinks about how easy it had been to kiss Rickon with her head buzzing from shots, mistletoe all around, everything taking on a slightly dreamy quality. She’d spent an embarrassingly long time when she woke up looking at the fake tattoo on her calf. It’s a surprisingly delicate Christmas tree covered in snow that looks like a real tattoo. Davos is very talented.

But Shireen’s not one to back down from a challenge, and honestly, humiliation in front of man wouldn’t even come close to the worst things she’s has gone through. 

“I’m interested,” Shireen says. “But I don’t know what you … if you have expectations that I …” She shrugs helplessly.

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do,” Rickon says quickly. “And I’m sorry if I did.”

He looks truly horrified at the thought.

“I wanted to,” Shireen blurts out, turning red as she thinks about the feel of his hands over her skin, how it made her feel. “But I’m not very good at … I don’t date much.”

“Me either.”

Shireen can’t help raising her eyebrows at that and it somehow breaks the tension, and they’re both laughing. 

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go home with you,” Shireen says, in a sudden burst of honesty. “It’s just too soon. I don’t — we aren’t —”

Rickon’s eyes grow dark. “I wanted you to go home with me, too.” 

Shireen is suddenly, terribly conscious of the way her bed is visible behind the row of shelves she uses as a makeshift wall, sheets still rumpled from sleep. 

“But if you want to hang out first, or whatever,” Rickon continues. “I’m cool with that too.” 

“I’d like that.” Shireen can’t control the smile that spreads across her face, or the desire to step forward and hug Rickon.

He smells like leather and cinnamon and _green_ (somehow), and he’s so very warm and solid where Shireen’s head rests against his chest.

Then suddenly she’s feeling the ground drop out beneath her. Rickon just picks Shireen up like she weighs nothing, which makes her feel more than a little light-headed. Especially when Rickon kisses her. Shireen only feels self-conscious for a minute, before some instinct kicks in and she wraps her legs around Rickon’s waist. He actually growls in response, spinning them around and pressing Shireen to the door and deepening the kiss. 

Shireen actually whimpers when Rickon pulls away from her mouth, sucking at a spot under her ear that has her trying to pull him closer. 

“I should go,” Rickon says, face buried in her neck.

Shireen makes some sort of noise. She’s not sure if it’s meant to indicate agreement or disagreement.

Rickon’s ear is right there, tempting Shireen to give into her desire to run her tongue along it. Rickon reacts delightfully, arms gripping her almost painfully. 

“If I don’t go, I’m going to throw you down on that bed and not leave until I’ve fucked you so hard you don’t remember who you are.” 

Shireen doesn’t even have a word to describe the noise she makes when Rickon says that or the way heat curls in her belly. 

Rickon pulls his face away, setting her down gently. Shireen is gratified to see he’s breathing heavily, looking flushed as he gazes down at her. 

When he texts her later with a question about dinner later in the week, Shireen might dance around her apartment in a way that would be embarrassing if anyone were there to see her.

Luckily, there isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rickon and Shireen are both USUALLY okay with willpower, it just seems to vanish when they're in proximity to each other.


	36. Just To See You Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shelter doesn't look any better on Jaime's second visit. Neither does the extraordinarily tall and angry woman who runs it.

The shelter is just as dingy and worn down when Jaime shows up for the second time. This time the front desk is manned by a weasley-looking kid with floppy hair, who is slumped over his phone. He barely looks up when Jaime tells him he’s here to pick up his cats, just shouts for Brienne, who appears from the back room, stomping and frowning just like before. She doesn’t soften at all when she sees Jaime, not even when he gives her his most charming smile.

He wonders if Brienne ever smiles, or if her face is permanently fixed in a look of displeasure.

Jaime had been disappointed to find he couldn’t take the cats immediately after his last visit. They’ve now been sent to the vet, spayed and neutered (the kittens, the older cat is already fixed) and brought up to date on all injections. Now there’s a pile of additional paperwork, which he scrawls on with his fountain pen.

Jaime doesn’t always carry a fountain pen, but it seems like the sort of thing that would make Brienne angry, so he’d grabbed one off his desk on his way out the door.

It does indeed make her lip twitch in a most amusing fashion. 

“You’ve got everything you need?” Brienne asks. 

Jaime is very tempted to say no, because technically he doesn’t. Tyrion has it, since his brother will be keeping the cats in his apartment until Christmas morning. 

“Yes, wench.” Jaime smiles at her again, watching the scowl deepen. She’s so easy to wind up it’s almost unfair. 

Jaime’d gotten a list of supplies, and dutifully purchased litter boxes (hideously ugly, someone really should make a better option), the same food the shelter uses, bowls, brushes and toys. He’d even sprung for the fancy water fountain the pet store clerk had assured him was best for making sure cats stay hydrated. 

It’s also ugly. 

Jaime wonders if pet suppliers are _trying_ to make owning animals as unappealing as possible or if they just don’t care about design.

Brienne is tapping her fingers on the desk, looking at the carriers he’s carried in and stacked next to him.

Three, as instructed, because apparently even kittens can’t share.

“You’ll need to switch them to better food,” Brienne says. “The stuff here is — we can’t afford better, it’s not bad, but there’s higher quality. But you’ll want to do it gradually. Mix a little bit in with the food they have now, then slowly increase the new food. Especially for Brenna, she’s getting older, you don’t want her to get sick or refuse to eat. And you’ll want to make additional vet appointments for the kittens in about two months, we’ll give you a coupon for a discount. Brenna won’t need to go for a while, but you’ll want to take her in about six months out, she’ll need a full senior checkup.”

Brienne is rambling, which seems out of character, from the brief times Jaime’s interacted with her. 

“I _will_ take care of them,” he says, trying to put enough seriousness into her voice. 

Brienne nods stiffly, and, paperwork completed, hands Jaime the coupon (to some place called Starfish Veterinary) before leading him back to the cages. 

The kittens are as personable and loving as they were the first time, rubbing their little cheeks against Jaime’s hand and pawing at him as he lifts them into the carriers. They’re noticeably bigger than last time, which surprises Jaime a little. 

Brienne slows when she approaches the older cat — Brenna, the shelter has been calling her, though Brienne assured him the animal would adapt to whatever name he chooses — and opens the cage.

“Hi Brenna,” Brienne coos, in a tone of voice Jaime definitely does not expect to hear from an angry Amazon. She sounds almost maternal. 

“You’re gonna go to a new home,” Brienne says softly, gently pulling the fluffy black cat from where she’s curled in the corner of her cage. “You’re going to have good food and warm places to sleep and people to love you, won’t that be nice?” 

Brenna curls against Brienne’s chest when Brienne holds her, and Jaime is shocked to see the woman’s eyes glistening when she turns around.

“Are you crying?” It comes out before Jaime can stop himself. 

Brienne’s face turns red, which only serves to emphasize the blue of her eyes and what are definitely tears gathering. 

“Brenna’s been here a long time,” Brienne says defensively. She doesn’t stop stroking the cat, and Jaime is struck by how long and graceful Brienne’s fingers are in contrast to the rest of her. “I’ve spent a lot of time with her.”

“So why not adopt her?”

“I can’t.” Brienne sets Brenna in the carrier with a sigh, carefully packing a rather tattered looking teal blanket with her. “I already have ... more cats than my building would like. Any more and I’ll be evicted.” 

Jaime wonders how many cats, exactly, it takes to get evicted. 

Maybe his earlier joke about seven wasn’t far off. 

“She’s a very sweet girl,” Brienne says, fixing Jaime with a hard stare. “I know plenty of people ignore the paperwork but if you can’t handle her, _please_ bring her back here, not somewhere else. I’ll ... I’ll figure something out.” 

As much as she’s glaring, there’s something terribly sad in Brienne’s face. It makes Jaime think of how Myrcella had looked in the meeting with social workers, masking her sorrow with anger. That must be the reason he opens his mouth again. 

“You can visit her, if you want.” 

Jaime is pretty sure the last thing the cat wench will want is to associate with him, but she does look awfully sad. 

“Funny,” Brienne says dryly. 

“No, I mean it,” Jaime finds himself insisting. “I’ll give you my cell number, just call and we can set it up.”

Brienne still looks skeptical. 

“You can tell me all the things I’m doing wrong,” Jaime offers. “I’ve never owned cats before, as you’ve pointed out, so you can check up on us.” 

The kittens mew in agreement from their carriers as Jaime holds his hand out for Brienne’s phone. 

There’s a long pause before she hands it over, and Jaime dutifully keys his numbers in.

Why he puts the name as Jaime, The Most Handsome Cat Owner, he doesn’t quite know. 

The kittens quiet as Brienne helps him carry the animals out, since it’s a lot harder to balance three carriers when there are moving animals inside them.

“Do you mean it?” Brienne asks, after she’s carefully seatbelted the carriers into place. “About visiting Brenna?” 

Jaime doubts she’ll actually call, but he will let her come over if she does.

“Of course.” 

Brienne’s smile, it turns out, is almost as pretty as her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Jaime. So oblivious to his own feelings.


	37. Songs Of Good Cheer, Christmas Is Here*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Christmas concert goes better than any Missy can remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously unposted!

Sister Mordane finds out about the concert after a week and a half of rehearsals. It's later than Missy thought she’d find out, and only three days before the actual show. 

Sister Mordane means well, Missy knows she does, but the fretting over whether or not the kids are being deprived by not singing about Santa and trees is a bit much. Especially when Christmas is pretty much plastered everywhere in town. You can't go more than a few feet without getting smacked by a bow or a sprig of mistletoe.

The kids are excited about the show and that's what really matters.

There are plenty of parents, aunts, uncles, and assorted community members in the audience when the group assembles on stage, trying their best to stand in straight lines.

The littlest ones are dressed in white, with top hats Grey produced from somewhere and little paper carrots strapped over their noses, making the most adorable collection of snow-children Missy has seen. 

Especially when “dress in white” as an instruction to parents has produced a wide variety of outfits, ranging from a gorgeous white velvet dress and matching Mary Janes to sneakers, sweatpants, and a tee shirt turned inside out so the logo is mostly invisible. 

The kindergarteners are getting wiggly just as they are due to exit, and Missy and Shireen help shepherd them off to the audience, where they attempt to be quiet as they find their parents. 

Missy's class has been over the moon as well, all in fuzzy sweaters with their snowflakes pinned on. Missy is pleased to see Tommen must have given his uncle the note she wrote for him, because he's costumed as everyone else is, knit hat pulled on his head and a very expensive looking sweater. His snowflake is pinned on just like the rest of the children, though Missy and Grey had taken care of that right before the show.

Missy is amazed at how well the snowflakes turned out. Even hers, and she knows she spent more time watching Grey out of the corner of her eye than she did cutting the designs into the material.

The man makes scissors look sexy and that's really saying something.

Missy beams at her students as they make their way through the songs and then file offstage, doing a better job of being quiet as they join their families in the audience.

Missy has heard the program what seems like a hundred times by now, but she's still in awe of what Grey has achieved. The oldest kids sound good, like a real choir almost, as they hold their LED candles and make their way through the two songs. The audience goes silent, free of the usual mumbles from siblings and scuffling of bored little feet.

The applause at the end of the show is always nice, but it seems more genuine this year. Or maybe Missy is reading into things.

Maybe not, though, because after the curtain closes Grey is swarmed by parents telling him how much they loved the show. 

Missy watches the crowd mingle — or not — and leave. She's pleased to see little Walder's mother was able to get off work and come see the show, because he'd been so worried. She's still in scrubs but she's there, smiling fondly as Walder chatters away.

Tommen Baratheon still hasn't spoken (or sang) but Missy is glad to see his uncles and sister hug him and tell him he did great anyway. Missy tries very hard not to judge her student's families, because she can't know what goes on at home (or elsewhere — one student came to school so dirty Missy almost called for a wellness check, until one of the girl's friends mentioned they liked to cut through one of the parks and were trying to figure out whether mud or dirt was better for year round sledding) but sometimes it's hard.

It's not that the Baratheons didn't love their children, because for all their faults, they did seem to care about their kids. It just came out horribly wrong, as far as Missy can tell, and she's pretty sure if Tommen went mute around his parents, they would have tried to discipline or shame it out of him.

Of course, the reason he's mute is that his mother and terrible older brother murdered his father, so, yeah. 

Missy is so very glad she didn't live here until after Tommen's older brother finished elementary school. She's heard the stories. And seen Sister Mordane's scar.

Myrcella had been very sweet, however. Missy waves at them, and is only somewhat surprised to see Cella drag the whole group over.

Myrcella is very excited about middle school, Missy learns, even with the long bus ride. Tommen was very excited about the show, Myrcella reports, and their apartment is now decorated like Christmas and Tommen liked making Christmas cookies and Myrcella can’t wait for presents.

Missy wonders if Tommen speaks around his sister or if she's just filling things in with her own interpretation.

The older uncle, the one with custody, stops Missy just as they’re about to leave. Myrcella is bent down slightly to chat with her other uncle, Tommen trailing along with them.

"Thank you for the note," Jaime says. "I wouldn't have wanted him to be left out."

"He's a good kid." Missy watches them. "I hope he works through this." 

"We all do," Jaime says. He gives her a smile that should quite possibly be illegal.

Jaime Lannister isn't really Missy's type. He's a fair bit older than her and everything about him screams country club set but she's not blind. He's an incredibly good looking man. 

And as he follows the rest of his family out, he looks utterly delighted to be there with his brother, who is attracting looks from some of the audience despite having lived in Westeros his entire life. Apparently people still aren't used to his dwarfism, not to mention one child who isn't speaking, and another who seems to make up for it by speaking a mile a minute.

Again, Missy tries not to judge, but when she sees a father come in wearing an expensive suit and a watch that costs more than Missy's car, nine times out of ten they spend most of the time on their phone, ignoring the child, and offloading all responsibility onto their wife.

Robert Baratheon certainly fit that mold. 

Missy is very glad to see that Jaime doesn’t, despite the expensive clothes and designer shoes. Tommen needs somebody who will care about and listen to him. She tries, but there are ten other students in her class, and there’s only so much she can do. 

The auditorium is almost empty by the time Missy is able to make her way to Grey. She gives into the impulse to hug him, breathing in the scent of his aftershave and the solid feel of his shoulders.

He is shockingly muscular under his sweaters. 

“The show went great,” Missy says sincerely. 

Grey is grinning wider than Missy has ever seen him. Not that he smiles terribly often. He’s rather a stoic sort, really.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Grey says. Missy feels her cheeks warm and hopes the light is dim enough to hide her blush. 

“All part of the job,” she says lightly. “But I do think a congratulatory drink is in order.”

Grey looks at her with amusement. “Is that so?”

Missy nods. “I’ve been harassing Tarly’s to step up their cocktail offerings. I promise you, only the best in town for Westeros’s hardest-working art teacher.”

Grey takes the arm Missy offers. “Lead on, then.”

Missy is pretty sure there’s enough mistletoe left between the school and Tarly’s to make the night _very_ memorable. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have said it's helpful to note new chapters, so I'm trying to do that in the notes — also, adding an asterisks to the title, for easier finding while scrolling.


	38. Someone To Love Me, Someone To Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry is doing a good job as Arya's fake date. Too good. It's weird.

“That is the ugliest sweater I have ever seen.” Gendry looks like he’s about to burst out laughing. 

Arya scowls at him. Her Christmas R2-D2 sweater is one of the better ugly sweater choices, in her opinion. 

“Wait until you see yours.” She shoves the bag at him.

“Oh no, I’m not wearing a Christmas sweater.” Gendry shakes his head. “Nope. No way.”

“It’s an ugly sweater party.” Arya rolls her eyes. “You have to.”

“Somehow you failed to mention that before.” 

“Oh, did I?” Arya smirks up at him. “You did promise.” 

Arya isn’t worried about outlasting Gendry’s efforts to stare her down, and it’s not long before he’s pulling the sweater over his head with a grimace. The Tyrannosaurus Rex wrapped in lights does look very festive in Arya’s opinion. 

The ugly sweater party is a tradition, hosted by the Stark family for all the employees at Cregan’s. Everyone goes, even the Starks who don’t work at the store. As far as Arya’s concerned, it’s a giant pain, but her mother is insistent about having all the children attend.

The first person Arya sees when they walk through the door is Robb, who’s looking extra morose in contrast to his sweater featuring a Gingerbread man and the words “Oh snap.”

Theon is patting him on the shoulder and looking around nervously. Probably because he’s wearing his humping reindeer sweater again, the one that makes Arya’s mom yell at him a lot.

Arya feels Gendry’s hand on her back again and bites back the urge to jump and shout at him. They’re supposed to be on a real date, though, so it would look suspicious. 

Does he have to be so touchy, though? What is Gendry playing at, anyway? Like that stupid kiss last night under the stupid mistletoe. 

Gendry is behaving the same as he was at the town party, weirdly attentive and going to get drinks and asking Arya if she needs anything.

It’s _weird_ and Arya isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do in this situation.

Gendry is getting eggnog for them when her mother finally comes over, looking somehow elegant even in a sweater that has a reindeer with a light up nose on the front. 

“Oh, dear, you didn’t bring anyone?” Cat reaches out to fuss with Arya’s hair and she bats her hand away. 

“I did. He’s getting drinks.”

Arya sees her mother’s face fall a little. 

“Honey, you don’t need to pretend, it’s fine.”

“Mom, I’m not pretending!” Arya can feel her anger rising. It’s nice that her mother is so supportive but it’s not very useful if she won’t believe Arya. 

It’s also annoying that Catelyn seems to be so convinced Arya would even want to hide her sexuality. Look, if Arya was a lesbian, she’d say so. It’s just that she’s not one.

“I love you no matter who you date,” Cat continues. “And LGBTQ people are just like anyone else.”

“Yeah, I know that Mom, I’m just not one of them.” Arya can feel her teeth grinding already. She’s going to have a massive headache by the end of the night if she doesn’t stop.

Thankfully Gendry returns with the eggnog before Cat can go on. Arya takes hers and drains half of it in one go, hoping the bourbon will help. Gendry looks between the two of them and drapes his arm over Arya’s shoulders.

The prospect of finally getting through to her mother calms Arya a bit.

“Mom, this is Gendry.” Arya shifts closer to Gendry. He’s very warm, somehow. Are guys always warm? “My date.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stark.” Gendry moves his arm enough to shake Cat’s hand, then returns it to Arya’s shoulders. Like it’s something he’s used to doing. Cat still looks skeptical. But Arya’s mom is nothing if not polite, and she asks how they met, hmming thoughtfully at Gendry’s job at the garage, glancing between the two of them like she’s trying to puzzle something out. 

Gendry smirks down at Arya. “You have an eggnog mustache.”

“Shut up.” Arya scrubs at her mouth. 

“Still missing it.” 

Gendry transfers his cup to his other hand, coming very close and leaving Arya with the odd sensation of being surrounded by a wall of Gendry. A very warm wall that smells like motor oil and something spicy and musky. 

With his hand free, Gendry wipes at her face. Arya goes very, very still as he does, suddenly aware of how close he is and the way the calluses on his thumb catch on the skin above her lip. Something about it makes her shiver a little. 

“There,” Gendry says. Arya thinks his voice might be a little bit lower. He doesn’t turn back right away, his hand lingering on her cheek for a minute while Arya stares up at him.

He really is very handsome, Arya realizes, with very blue eyes and cheekbones that are frankly absurd. 

Her mother clears her throat and Arya jumps. She’d forgotten Cat was standing there. When Arya turns back to her mother, Cat’s eyes are wide. 

“Well it’s very nice to meet you Gendry,” Cat says. Her voice sounds a little strangled. 

“Cheer up mom, you still have one lesbian daughter,” Arya tells her. At least all the rainbow merchandise won’t be wasted.

“Don’t be silly, Arya.” Cat is looking around. 

“Didn’t Sansa bring Margaery to the party?” Arya looks around before spotting the pair, wearing coordinating sweaters. Sansa’s has a sheep wrapped in lights and says “Fleece Navidad” while Margaery’s has “Fa La La Llama” on it, above a scarf-wearing llama. 

“Oh, her friend? Yes, she’s very nice.” Cat takes a step back. Then another. “Well, I need to go mingle.”

Arya rolls her eyes, watching her mother go at a speed that’s honestly a little surprising. She hasn’t seen Cat move that fast since Rickon’s pyromaniac days. 

Gendry doesn’t move his arm once Cat is gone, just grins down at Arya and steers them toward the food. 

At least the catering is good. Her parents get the fancy place from a couple of towns over, far better than anything in Westeros. Arya chews on the bone of a lamb chop as she looks around. Sansa and Margaery are holding hands and gazing adoringly at each other, and Rickon is sulking in a corner, wearing a sweater that features a skeleton on a motorcycle. 

Bran wheels past them, a plate of appetizers in his lap. His sweater has snowmen on it, and says Rollin’ With My Snowmies. Someday Arya’s brother is going to run out of wheelchair puns, and it’s going to be a great day for everyone. 

“Why hello there.” Jon materializes in front of Arya, his Festivus for the Rest of Us sweater usually a good match for his brooding mood.

Except he’s suspiciously not brooding right now. Arya wonders if it has to do with the redhead from Wildling’s, whose Naughty or Nice sweater somehow manages to be cropped and large enough to hang off one shoulder at the same time. 

That’s the kind of sex appeal that’s far beyond Arya’s grasp. 

“Who is this?” Jon sounds gleeful.

“Gendry,” Arya says, around a mouthful of shrimp. She hopes some of it gets on Jon. 

Gendry introduces himself, and then so does Ygritte, elbowing Jon in the side. 

“I saw you two last night.” Jon can’t keep the gleeful tone out of his voice.

“So.” Arya stares at him. 

“I saw you two kissing.” Jon sounds like they’re all in fifth grade again.

Gendry looks a little panicked, and excuses himself to get more snacks, Ygritte following him. Arya wonders if Gendry likes Ygritte’s sexy sweater.

“It was mistletoe.” Arya snatches a crostini from a passing waiter. “Besides he’s my date.”

“Yeah, to make Aunt Cat stop insisting you’re a lesbian.” Jon’s eyes narrow. “Unless it’s a real date.”

“We had to make it look real.” Arya hopes she’s not turning red. She thinks she might be. 

“No,” Jon says slowly, watching Arya’s face. “No, you _like_ him.”

“I do not. Shut up.” 

“You do.” Jon sounds positively gleeful. “Sansa is going to flip.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Arya grabs Jon’s sweater. “Or I’ll tell her you need sex advice.” 

That’s the moment Ygritte and Gendry return. Gendry wraps his arm around Arya again, like that’s a totally normal thing to do, and holds the plate in between them. 

“I noticed you liked the lamb,” he says. There are several chops on the plate. 

Arya supposes he means for them to share the plate. Which seems weird. But the lamb is really good, so she’s not going to turn it away.

Ygritte is eating tandoori chicken straight off the skewer. She hasn’t bothered with a plate, and there’s a smear of yogurt sauce at the corner of her mouth. “Who’s giving Jon sex advice?”

Jon says “no one” at the same time Arya says “our sister” and Ygritte grins. 

“She does look like she’s good with her tongue.”

Arya shudders, but follows Ygritte’s gaze to where Sansa has Margaery under the mistletoe, engaged in a very enthusiastic kiss. Probably too enthusiastic for a public setting. 

What’s even better is that Arya can see her mother behind Sansa and Margaery, looking pale and clutching Ned’s arm. Arya’s father looks as stoic as always. The lights on his Christmas tree sweater blinking randomly, sending different colored light across his face.

“Must be a family trait.” Ygritte grins at Jon, then punches Gendry lightly in the shoulder. “Good to date a Stark.” 

Gendry’s the one turning red and stumbling over his words this time. Arya tugs him away, but not before telling Jon and Ygritte to get their minds out of the gutter, which just makes Ygritte laugh and Jon stare at Ygritte like she’s the best thing in the world.

Once Cat has been suitably corrected as to the identity of her lesbain daughter, and is wandering around in a daze, and Arya has introduced Gendry to her father (it’s very amusing, Gendry stands up straighter and she’d swear his voice catches and he calls Ned sir), Arya expects he’ll ease back on the act. Everyone is definitely convinced, even Sansa. Sadly, Arya fails at evading her sister, who squeals and wraps Arya and Gendry in a giant hug, patting Gendry on his chest and complimenting his muscles. 

“Not that I’m into muscles,” Sansa says, words slurring slightly. The party is almost over and Arya isn’t sure if it’s better that she avoided Sansa until now or worse. “But Arya is and yours are very nice.”

“Sansa!” Arya hisses between her teeth.

“Muscles are nice,” Margaery adds thoughtfully. “But not as nice as boobs.” 

Gendry makes an alarmed sort of noise. 

“And it’s nice for Arya to finally meet someone. She’s so picky.” Sansa’s eyes narrow suddenly and she pokes Gendry in the chest. “But she should be, because she deserves the best. You better treat my sister right.” 

“Lots of orgasms,” Margaery adds helpfully. She sways slightly, and then grabs on to Sansa for balance. It only makes Sansa stumble a little and the two of them wobble together, giggling, before finally regaining their footing.

Arya buries her face in her hands. “There are no orgasms.”

“Then you’re not doing it right.” Margaery frowns at them. “Do you need instructions?”

Gendry chokes on air. 

“No!” Arya yelps. “There’s not — we’re not. Why is everyone so interested in my sex life?”

“Well, it might help you relax if you got laid well.” Sansa is very frank about it. Arya feels like sinking into the ground. Turning to hide her face into Gendry’s side seems like the next best thing.

Except then she’s confronted with a lot of Gendry’s very nice, very good-smelling muscles and it probably looks very much like they _are_ dating and there _might_ be orgasms. Which they aren’t and there won’t, because this is just a favor. 

Which Arya will be paying for in archery lessons and an extremely cool set of vintage tools she’d unearthed at Syrio’s. 

“I hate you all,” Arya says, loud enough for them to hear even though her face is still pressed against Gendry’s sweater.

She feels the vibrations when Gendry laughs. At least Rickon and Robb don’t have anything to say about her love life. Rickon just grunts out a greeting and Robb stares at them and morosely mutters something about Christmas miracles and the wrong Stark.

It’s snowing lightly when they leave, bundled up in coats and hats. Gendry slips his arm around Arya’s shoulder again as they leave, confusingly, and they walk towards the square. Arya isn’t ready to go home just yet, if only because Micah’s girlfriend is visiting and Lommy will be tired of playing third wheel and want to cling to Arya. 

She really should think about getting her own place. 

Gendry seems to be following her lead as they walk around the square. Arya likes it like this, when it’s dark and it’s snowing but not so hard to be a problem, and she can hear the distant sounds of everyone leaving the party and see the twinkle of holiday lights up and down the streets. 

“I had fun,” Gendry says, voice rumbly, and Arya swears she can feel it even through both of their coats. 

“Even with the sweater?”

“I still hate the sweater.” 

“No you don’t.” Arya elbows him, grinning at the breath of air he lets out. 

“Nice way to treat your date.” Gendry pulls them to a stop near the fountain. It’s not running, too cold for that, but the stone dragon at the center is still majestic.

Arya still isn’t sure why Westeros has a dragon, of all things, in the town square, but she’s always thought it was the best part of downtown. 

“I really did have fun.”

Then Gendry is leaning down and kissing her again. Arya tries to keep up, but her head is spinning with confusion. This kiss is longer than the one last night, long enough for her to register what’s happening and realize she’s supposed to be doing something. Arya tries to move her lips along with Gendry’s, the kiss deeper and more intense than before, even if he doesn’t do anything like stick his tongue in her mouth. 

Arya looks up when Gendry pulls away, noticing that she’s somehow grabbed onto his arms without realizing, mittened hands clutching at his coat as best she can. 

“There’s no mistletoe,” Arya says, after searching for the offending plant.

“No,” Gendry says. “There’s not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lambchop things are real, and I swear to god, they were the best food I've ever had. Also, so is the plate thing, from a company party, with a dude who got weird and flirty when drunk and ignored me while sober. Ahem. Anyway.


	39. Better Than Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam tries to surprise Gilly with a romantic date, but Jon thinks he could have planned better.

In retrospect, someone should have realized this was a bad idea.

But Sam is set on doing something nice for Gilly, because she’s running the bakery pretty much on her own (though she does, apparently, have six sisters — at least — hence the name, but somehow is the only one working most of the time) and it’s Christmas and Jon might as well help out.

It’s certainly better than walking the streets outside in the cold.

Sam decides to surprise Gilly with a picnic lunch. He gets the fancy salads from the deli at Tyrell’s and some mini quiches from Evenfall’s and a big thing of hot chocolate from Wildling’s, where Ygritte laughs at them and tells Jon it’d be more romantic to buy a big box of condoms. Jon helps Sam carry it all over, along with a big blanket from the back of Sam’s car, and Gilly’s face does light up and then falls immediately.

Because lunch, of course, is a busy time for Seven Sisters. After several moments of Sam fretting, Jon helps Sam set up the picnic anyway, and slouches in a chair across the room to enjoy the show.

“This was more romantic in my head,” Sam admits, around the fourth time Gilly hops up to serve a customer, who looks extremely puzzled by the whole endeavor.

Jon can’t blame them, the bakery’s owner sitting on the floor on an ugly crocheted blanket, surrounded by to-go containers of food in the corner of the bakery isn’t exactly typical.

The part where Sam’s still in his police uniform probably doesn’t help either.

“She still seems flattered,” Jon says. Gilly is blushing a pretty pink and giggling at Sam, even when he knocks over a cup of hot chocolate and has to mop it up before it spreads over the entire floor. 

“You could help you know,” Sam says, jerking his head towards the cash register.

Gilly finishes up with the current customer and comes back to Sam, smiling at him and letting him feed her a bite of chilled lemon pasta.

So Jon finds himself manning the counter of an incredibly frilly bakery while his partner/best friend sits on a blanket on the floor, canoodling with the bakery owner. 

It gets worse when Sansa comes in, eyes widening as she takes in the scene.

“Fuck off.” Sansa is utterly unperturbed by Jon’s comment, giggling madly next to the tall blonde who is definitely her boss and not her girlfriend. 

“Second job?” Sansa manages to get out. “Is police work not paying the bills?” 

Jon growls. The blonde looks alarmed. 

Sansa finally calms down enough to order lunch and introduce Jon to her boss — Brienne looks very relieved to learn that Jon is Sansa’s cousin and not some random person insulting her — and the two camp out at a table while Jon tries to get their order together.

Jon not-so-subtly suggests they leave, but Sansa ignores him. 

“It’s so sweet,” Sansa says, gazing at Sam and Gilly, as Jon sets down the bowls of apple brie soup and thick slices of warm honey-wheat bread. The soup smells amazing, and Jon decides he’ll have to grab his own bowl. He’ll consider it payment for working the bakery’s busy lunch hour.

“It’s a bit impractical,” Brienne says. 

Jon heads back to the counter, handling a steady stream of vaguely confused customers. Luckily for him, everything at Seven Sisters is already made — the pies, the cakes, the trays of cookies and pastries. The lunch sandwiches are all assembled and stored in a cooler, and the soup is already in vats so all Jon has to do is ladle it into bowls. 

Gilly and Sam have migrated closer to each other, Gilly laying a hand on Sam’s arm and smiling at him so much it’s almost sickening. The rest of the cafe is buzzing with people, most getting to-go orders but a few sitting down to eat. Tyene Sand grabs a roast beef and pear sandwich with blue cheese, giving Jon a grin and tossing a complimentary condom from her store, Happy Endings, at Sam and Gilly, who both get incredibly flustered. 

Tywin Lannister stops by and frowns at everyone, and mutters about walking out only to be shushed by his sister. They both get soup to go, along with crusty sourdough rolls. Genna also picks up one of Gilly’s black diamonds, a diamond shaped treat full of chocolate cake layered with chocolate cream and topped with ganache. Varys stops by and snaps several photos before picking out four different flavors of cheesecake and taking the slices to go.

Jon hands Addam Marbrand his bag of cookies and loaf of herb bread, before stopping to drop off the pie Sansa and Brienne have ordered for dessert. Sansa immediately digs into her sweet potato slice, but Brienne sits frozen, ignoring her maple cream pie and turning a deep shade of red that makes Jon wonder if he should be calling the EMS crew.

Jon is wiping down the counter as Addam stops on his way out, leaning against the table and smiling at the two women. Jon can’t hear what he says, but whatever it is makes Sansa giggle lightly and Brienne turn an even deeper shade of red. 

Jon can see Addam scribbling something on a card and handing it to Brienne, who manages to take the card even though Jon can see her hand shaking. 

She’s almost as hopeless as Sam is, apparently. Maybe Jon can get them to form some sort of support group. 

By the time Sam and Gilly wrap up, Jon has served what seems like half the town. Sansa and Brienne have left, though not before Sansa gripped her friend’s arm and shrieked with delight as soon as Addam had left the bakery. (Jon is pretty sure he was still close enough to hear it.) 

“It went well,” Sam says, apparently forgetting about Gilly’s distraction, the spilled hot chocolate, or the time Gilly had stepped on one of the mini quiches in her hurry to serve a customer. 

“Maybe try something when she’s not working,” Jon suggests. He looks at the frosted windows of Happy Endings across the street while Sam juggles the picnic basket and blanket.

Ygritte was probably being serious about the condoms, Jon thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roast beef with pear and blue cheese makes a banging sandwich. 10/10 will eat again. 
> 
> [Brie and Chedder Apple Beer Soup](https://www.halfbakedharvest.com/brie-cheddar-apple-beer-soup-cinnamon-pecan-oat-crumble/) is good. I assume the crumble is too, but my cooking interest tapped out after the soup. The lemon pasta salad is based off one sold at Safeway and Schnuck's, but there's a decent [knockoff recipe](https://foodyandy.com/2015/06/28/lemon-caper-capellini-salad-obsession/) here. 
> 
> The Black Diamond is a real dessert from Old Europe Bakery in Asheville, NC. Definitely worth getting if you're there but not as good as their French Creamy, which help me I WILL figure out how to make.
> 
> I can't remember exactly which maple cream pie recipe I've made, but I think it might be [this one](https://www.tasteandtellblog.com/maple-cream-pie-recipe/). I mean, I don't think any of the others would be bad. Go forth and maple/


	40. 'Tis The Season To Be Jolly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion doesn't know what hell has swept through Jaime's apartment and vomited up the North Pole.

The first clue is the wreath. It doesn’t register in Tyrion’s mind, because wreaths are normal holiday decor. Maybe not for Lannisters, who tend to pretend the holidays don’t exist, except as an annoying interruption in the business of making money, but it’s fine. It’s a nice wreath, even. Pine branches. Red bow. Pinecones. A little glitter. Normal.

Then Jaime opens the door to the apartment and Tyrion feels like he’s been assaulted by a hurricane comprised of the North Pole and a glitter factory explosion.

“What the fuck?”

Jaime beams and takes Tyrion’s coat. Tyrion’s a little worried it’s going to disappear forever and be replaced with something red and green and sparkly.

Jaime’s normally stylish, minimalist modern apartment has been infested with Christmas to the highest degree. There’s a tree — which, again, fine — covered in lights and ornaments, all in shades of red and green and gold. Matching stockings are hung on one wall, near the old radiator that has been replaced in function with radiant heated floors. There are garlands and lights strung everywhere they can be, and small figurines and scenes on every flat surface. Santas, reindeer, a small snow-capped village, little frolicking forest animals in Santa hats. There’s even a nativity scene, ceramic Mary and Joseph and Jesus frozen in repose.

“I had Peck hire decorators!” Jaime is wearing a sweater that is, at least, less offensive than some Tyrion has seen, but is still red with white stripes interspersed with reindeer. Normal reindeer, not the fucking ones Tyrion had seen the Greyjoy kid wearing, which he found quite amusing. 

“Decorators….”

Tyrion tries his best to process the part where someone got paid for this monstrosity. 

“Isn’t it great? I wanted the best Christmas decorations.”

“You say decorations, I say attack on my poor eyes.” Tyrion shoves his copy of the Weekly Spyder at Jaime and looks for the kids. He finally spots Myrcella slumped on the couch, under a bunting encouraging one to “BELIEVE” and Tommen sprawled on the floor next to a sleigh filled with pinecones and ribbon. Tommen is scribbling away in a coloring book. Myrcella, as usual, has her phone.

“I like it.” Jaime looks wounded. Tyrion sighs.

“Father isn’t happy,” Tyrion says. He gestures to the paper. Varys’ photos from the holiday party have captured much of the festivities, in full color. Tyrion is quite proud of the photo that caught, at the end of the evening, Ros giving him a lap dance at Littlefingers, wearing a Santa hat and extremely brief skirt (and nothing else) but for once that’s not the main focus of his father’s rage. “Page two.”

Jaime seems stuck on the front page of the paper, however. Varys has used the headline “Mistletoe Magic” and filled the section with family-friendly kisses under the many sprigs of the plant around the town. There’s annoyingly noble Ned Stark planting a polite kiss on the cheek of Aunt Genna, where the two had been caught, followed by a photo of Ned and Cat exchanging a surprisingly heated kiss of their own. Who’d have thought the uptight bastard had it in him?

Then again, they do have five kids.

There’s Walda Frey-Bolton planting an enthusiastic smooch on her long-suffering husband, a flustered Davos Seaworth receiving a peck from Maege Mormont, and one of the school teachers kneeling for a cheek kiss from a blushing and delighted student. A small boy and girl are caught in another shot, the boy screwing up his face while the girl kisses him on the cheek, another where Oberyn Martell has Ellaria Sand in a dip straight out of an old movie and an incredibly forced-looking smooch between Jon and Lysa Arryn. 

Jaime is frowning at the picture of Addam Marbrand, who’s kissing the ugliest blonde Tyrion has seen, who has quite the shocked expression on her face. 

“Page two,” Tyrion tells Jaime again.

“I can’t believe Addam kissed the …” Jaime trails off, looking at Tommen.

“Who?”

“The ….” Jaime makes a series of gestures. Tyrion stares blankly.

“The cat wench,” Jaime finally whispers, lowering his voice. Neither child is paying the slightest bit of attention. 

“Cat wench?” 

Jaime shushes him frantically, and then takes one final look at the kids before hauling Tyrion into the kitchen.

The kitchen hasn’t escaped the yuletide explosion, and Tyrion has to push aside a large snowman to get to his chair. 

“The woman from the shelter,” Jaime says. “The one that didn’t want to let me have the cats.”

“The cats are doing fine, by the way.” At least, Tyrion thinks they’re fine. He’s not exactly sure what cats are supposed to do. The old one seems to sleep a lot and the little ones like to run in circles for no discernible reason. But they’re all alive and eating so that seems like a good baseline. And pooping. A lot. Tyrion is glad he’s paying the neighbor kid to scoop the litter box, because it’s truly disgusting.

Jaime is frowning at the photo again. 

“Addam likes fun girls,” Jaime mutters. “She’s the kind of woman who owns fifteen cats and thinks a kiss means something. What was he thinking?”

“I thought you only met this woman once?”

“I’ve seen her around.” Jaime sounds far too invested in a stranger. “I just think Addam is making a mistake.”

“Addam is making a mistake.” Tyrion looks at the photo again. Still a tall, ugly blonde. Nothing like the women Jaime has dated (or fucked) over the years. Not someone Tyrion would expect his brother to get hung up on. Then again, Tyrion has never really understood what goes on in Jaime’s mind. 

“Are you sure you’re thinking about Addam here?”

“Of course.” Jaime looks offended. 

As much as Tyrion would like to explore his brother’s sudden interest in this strange woman, it’s not why he’s here. 

“Page two,” Tyrion says, yet again. Jaime finally opens the paper, and sees the other photos, this spread under the caption “Santa’s Naughty List.” In addition to Tyrion’s lap dance photo, another photo shows one of the school teachers with Rickon Stark’s hand up her skirt, another has Asha Greyjoy doing body shots off Val from the hardware store. There’s even one of Sandor Clegane, who’s being flashed by some woman in an elf hat. 

But none of those are why Tyrion is here. No, he’s here because of the prominent picture showing Myrcella cozying up to Trystane Martell, a cup of an undeniably alcoholic drink in her hand. Trystane, two years older, is smirking down at her with a look that can’t be mistaken for innocent.

“Well, fuck,” Jaime says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Christmas party definitely got lit as the night went on. Brienne, seeing the paper, is very glad she wasn't there for it. The photo with Addam is bad enough.


	41. Whiskers On Kittens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion might punch Jaime if he gets any more into Christmas.

If Jaime gets any more filled with holiday cheer, Tyrion is going to punch him.

Well, he’ll get _Bronn_ to punch Jaime, but it’s effectively the same thing.

This is probably why Jaime has custody of their sister’s kids and Tyrion doesn’t.

Still, Jaime is definitely going overboard for Christmas. Sure, Tyrion is spoiling the little brats rotten with all the expensive toys and clothes they could want, but that’s normal uncle behavior.

Jaime, on the other hand, seems to think he can turn their fucked up family into some kind of Hallmark movie. 

Getting Tommen a kitten is fine, although Tyrion finds the idea of scooping any animal’s shit out of a box disgusting. He doesn’t even mind keeping the animal for his brother until Christmas day (he’s hired a teenager who lives a few doors down and has a collection of animals that Tyrion thinks might be bordering on hoarding to come scoop the litter box for him). 

Then Jaime had come home with not one kitten but two. And an older cat that seems to do nothing but sleep on Jaime’s guest bed and glare balefully at Tyrion. 

Tyrion has no idea what possessed his brother, and all Jaime has done in response to his questions is look at him with a kind of desperate, longing look in his eyes and say something about running out of time, and ‘she was _sad_.’

After the post-party paper, Tyrion has finally worked out that she must be the ugly Amazon, although he has no idea why Jaime was so distressed over her. Though at this point, Tyrion will encourage Jaime’s interest in just about anyone if it gets him out of Tyrion’s hair. 

Now Jaime’s apartment looks like Christmas exploded all over and he’s sent Tyrion to find a Christmas basket for the kittens.

Tyrion has no idea what the fuck a Christmas basket is, or where to buy one, but Jaime had only made a series of confusing hand gestures and references to movies. Tyrion had suggested one of those giant car bows (he looked it up one day, you can actually buy them) but no, Jaime wants a basket. An adorable, Christmas-themed basket.

Does anyone even use baskets these days? Tyrion thought they were a relic of the past, from peasant farmers and women carrying herbs to market. 

Maybe he should try the antique store.

Except Syrio gets manic anytime a customer comes in and his little Stark helper looks like she wants to slit Tyrion’s throat, so maybe Tyrion will leave that until last.

Tyrion is contemplating his choices, sipping a to-go cappuccino (the horror) and strolling along main street when the window catches his eye.

It’s one of the many new shops that seem to be springing up lately as the town tries to revitalize main street. The window is done up to look like a winter holiday fantasy, with little animals leaping among trees decorated with snow. Elaborate paper stars, silver with intricate designs cut in, hang above it all.

It seems like exactly the kind of place that might have a basket.

Opening the door, Tyrion is confronted with shelves and shelves of colorful fabric, stretching to the ceiling. He had no idea you could buy fabric in so many varieties. 

There are no baskets visible, though, and Tyrion is about to give up and brave Syrio’s murder-antique store when a woman emerges from somewhere. She’s probably a bit younger than he is, dark hair falling in loose waves down her back, and she’s quite possibly the prettiest girl Tyrion has ever seen.

“May I help you?”

Even her voice is pretty. 

Tyrion wonders if there’s any possible way he can get out of this without looking like an idiot. 

Probably not.

“I’m looking for a Christmas basket,” he says, with a heavy sigh.

The woman looks confused. 

“My brother bought our nephew kittens for Christmas,” Tyrion tries to explain. “He wants to put them in a basket that’s ... festive?”

The woman claps her hands delightedly. 

“That’s adorable,” she says, her whole face lighting up. “I think we can sort something out.”

She looks so enthused that Tyrion feels compelled to point out he’s caring for the kittens in the meantime as he follows her into the depths of the store. Once he’s past the endless walls of fabric, there seem to be other supplies too, presumably for crafts? It seems like the kind of place you buy things for crafts. Not that Tyrion would know.

The woman — Tysha, she’s introduced herself — pulls various things off of shelves, humming to herself and chattering at Tyrion. Tyrion nods absently, trying to form a coherent response.

Which he can’t really do, when she’s contemplating color schemes and kitten comfort (he’s seen the animals fall asleep draped over a bed frame, they don’t have any concept of discomfort as far as Tyrion is aware) and level of festiveness.

By the time he’s done, Tyrion has dropped a decent amount of money on a large basket (because apparently people DO still buy baskets), an oversized gift tag with Tommen’s name written in Tysha’s delicate calligraphy, and a large bow. He’s also purchased a small pillow insert and a bunch of fabric in Christmas print, which he is paying Tysha to turn into a pillowcase and blanket cover for the basket.

Apparently a cover and a pillow are _essential_ for kitten Christmas gifts.

Tyrion’s half-tempted to introduce Tysha to Jaime, but he selfishly hopes the two never meet. At least not until Tysha is aware that, height aside, Tyrion is clearly the superior Lannister. 

Tyrion promises to provide kitten photos when he comes back to pick up the things.

Tysha’s smile as leaves is enough to make even Tyrion start humming a Christmas carol under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion has some holiday spirit, deep down, he's just very committed to being cranky.


	42. Don't Want A Lot For Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has an astonishingly small number of people to shop for, which should make Christmas shopping easier. If only that were the case.

Christmas shopping shouldn’t be too hard for Brienne, considering she really only has a handful of people to buy for. She’s already picked up a few locally made things to mail back to Tarth for her uncles and Jorgen, her father’s old employee/friend.

But Brienne’s father is shockingly difficult to shop for and it’s getting far too close to Christmas for Brienne’s comfort. 

“At least you only have one day of gifts,” Asha says, when Brienne is bemoaning her lack of ideas. “I have eight.”

“Don’t you just buy Theon eight bottles of booze?” 

Asha shrugs. 

The thing is, Brienne’s father refuses to give her ideas of things he wants. When she asks, he just says he wants her to be happy and enjoy life. 

“You could set up a date with the redheaded hottie and stick a bow on yourself when you tell him about it,” Asha suggests. She grins at Brienne over the table where they’re eating lunch, such as it is. Brienne’s been so busy she’s had to dip into the emergency snacks she keeps in her desk, so canned tuna and mandarin oranges it is. 

Brienne wishes, not for the first time, that Varys hadn’t published a photo of Addam kissing her on the front page of the Weekly Spyder. She’s already dreading what her father will say about it. Sansa had been positively gleeful when she told Asha that Addam had given Brienne his number.

“That’s not a present,” Brienne objects.

“It’s what he wants, right?” Asha grins. “Add bow, done.”

“It isn’t a present just because there’s a bow on it.” It’s an issue Brienne has repeatedly run into, as other ideas for her father have included restaurant supplies (that he’d buy anyway) and even just making breakfast.

“Says who?” Asha stirs her bowl of microwave noodles, narrowly avoiding splashing broth all over the chart she’s reviewing. “That’s my plan for Val … I look good in a bow.” 

Brienne knows she turns red. “That’s way too much information.”

“The real question is,” Asha continues, uncaring of Brienne’s discomfort. “ Do I put the bow on my tits or my cunt?”

“Asha!”

“She’s rather fond of both,” Asha muses. 

Brienne wonders, sometimes, how she and Asha ever managed to become such good friends. She can only imagine it had to do with forced togetherness in the high stress environment of vet school. Trauma bonding, or something like that. 

“Not helping my issue,” Brienne points out. 

Asha shrugs. “You could try it out for the hottie.” 

“I don’t even know him!” 

“You would after that,” Asha says. “Men are easy. You don’t even need the bow. Just show up and say you want to fuck.”

“I don’t want to —” Brienne takes a bite of her tuna to buy time. “I don’t know him, I haven’t been out with him. And I’m not going to.” 

“Why not?” Asha is suddenly serious. “Marbrand’s not a bad guy, from what I hear. He’s cute enough, if you’re into the whole dude thing. And he likes you.”

Brienne picks at the remains of her oranges. “I don’t understand why he’s doing it.”

Asha looks at her like she’s crazy. “Because he wants to go out with you.”

“But why?” Brienne frowns at the table. “Who put him up to it?”

Asha’s face goes soft in a way Brienne has rarely seen before. 

“Nobody,” Asha says. “It’s not … honey, this isn’t a prank. You can’t think that.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Well first of all, because you’re my friend.” Asha puffs her chest up. “I’m a Greyjoy. Everyone knows I’d cut a bitch that hurts you.” 

“Thank you?” Brienne is fairly certain violence is Asha’s way of saying I love you. It certainly is more welcome than pity, which makes Brienne want to curl up in a ball and take back the entire conversation.

“Second, you have legs for days,” Asha says. “Anyone who doesn’t want your thighs wrapped around their neck needs to seriously reconsider their attraction to women.” 

Brienne has definitely never heard that before. 

“Third, because Sansa would definitely have picked up on it if he was being insincere.” Asha knows Brienne isn’t confident in her ability to read people. “And she didn’t.”

“I don’t even know if I like him.”

“That’s why you go on a date.” Asha tosses her empty bowl at the trash and fist pumps when she gets it in. “Dinner or coffee isn’t a commitment to fucking him or anything else. If you have fun, you do it again and then you fuck him. If you don’t, you go your separate ways and move on to the next guy. Or girl, if you ever want to consider our much happier side of the fence.”

Asha makes it sound so simple. Like it’s all just normal, and maybe it is for other people, but not Brienne. Brienne knows the looks she gets in public, and she imagines they would only be worse if she was with a good-looking man — people wondering what he’s getting paid or how she’s blackmailing him. And what is she supposed to do on a date? What do people talk about or expect? Aren’t there rules about sex and when it’s expected? Brienne doesn’t know any of those rules. What if Addam expects things, things she’s not ready to give.

Asha smacks a kiss on Brienne’s forehead while Brienne is still trying to formulate a response. 

“Just think about it,” Asha says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selwyn really just does want the best for his daughter but it puts pressure on Brienne. 
> 
> Also, I'm excited to be really focusing on the new chapters of this now — especially now that my dad has left after a week and a half visit. It was a very helpful visit, which resulted in a lot of painting being done on my house, but it did leave me stuck on a Rickon/Shireen chapter I just ... couldn't write with him around.


	43. My Mama's Still My Biggest Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wonders why her mother has decided they should have lunch in the middle of the week.

“You know what would go great with this? Hot chocolate.”

Sansa doesn’t think hot chocolate would go great with meatball subs, not at all, but her mother is looking at the stove with such longing that Sansa makes a noise of agreement. Cat leaps up to start assembling ingredients, back turned to the table. 

Sansa keeps eating, wondering when her mother plans to get to the point of this surprise lunch. Not that Sansa is terribly put out, her mother’s meatball subs are amazing but still, Sansa doesn’t have all day. 

“So, Margaery seems like a nice girl.”

And there it is.

“She’s great. I like her a lot.” Sansa considers how much to say. “I think I could really have a future with her.” 

The spoon clatters loudly against the pan. Cat’s back is a stiff line, even as her voice is full of forced lightness. 

“I don’t know why you never mentioned this before.”

“Mom, I’ve been talking about pretty girls since I was in middle school.” Sure, she’s never made a big coming out speech, but Sansa’s never been terribly subtle about her feelings. 

Cat is quiet for a long moment.

“I thought you just enviend them,” her mother finally says.

Sansa can’t help snorting at that. “I spent three years insisting I was going to marry Jodie Foster one day.”

Cat stays quiet as she finishes making the hot chocolate and pours it into mugs, bringing them to the table. She’s still avoiding looking directly at her daughter and Sansa can’t help feel a surge of annoyance. 

“You had no problems when you thought Arya was a lesbian,” Sansa says. “You practically plastered the house in rainbows. So why are you so upset about me?”

“I’m not upset,” Cat says. It’s not very convincing. “I just don’t know why you couldn’t tell me.”

“I did tell you!” Sansa shakes her head. “I may not have made a big speech but I’ve never hidden how I feel. You just didn’t see it.”

Cat purses her lips together. 

“And you’re sure?” Her mother stares intently at her sandwich. “I mean, I don’t know the specifics of your relationship and I don’t want to pry, but sometimes you think you like something but it turns out you just admire it when it comes right down to it …”

Oh god. Her mother is asking if she’s sure she likes fucking girls. Sansa wonders if she can ask for a shot of vodka in her hot chocolate. 

“I’m sure,” Sansa says. “Very, _very_ sure.” 

Cat turns an interesting shade of red. 

“Mom,” Sansa says. “What’s really bothering you? I know you’re not homophobic. So why is this making you so upset?”

Sansa stays quiet until her mother finally looks over, meeting her eyes for the first time since Sansa arrived. 

“I’m not upset,” Cat says. “It’s just… oh, it’s silly, never mind.”

“Tell me.” Sansa finishes her sub, licking marinara sauce off her fingers. 

“I just always thought…” Cat shakes her head.

Sansa waits. 

“Arya’s always been a tomboy,” Cat finally bursts out. “Knowing she wasn’t — well, she’s never going to have a big wedding and babies anyway, is she? But I still had you and I’ve always imagined walking you down the aisle in a beautiful dress and holding your children and I _know_ it’s not my place to decide those things for you. It’s your life and you can do what you want but I’m just …”

Sansa can’t help it. She laughs. 

“Mom.” Sansa finally pulls herself together and reaches out to grab her mother’s hand. “I’m still me. I’ve always been me and I’ve always been a lesbian.”

Cat looks confused.

“I still want to get married and have a big fairytale wedding like I did when I was a kid. And I still want to have babies.” Sansa squeezes her mother’s hand. “There just might be two fancy wedding dresses instead of one, and I might not be the one giving birth to all the babies.” 

Sansa’s actually pretty relieved about that part. She wants a big family, but childbirth seems daunting. 

“I’m being silly, aren’t I?” 

“A little.” Sansa takes a sip of her hot chocolate. It’s not bad with the meatball subs, actually. “I really did think you knew.” 

Cat finally starts eating her own lunch. Sansa watches, wondering how her mother has missed the obvious for so long. Sansa just assumed she’d focused on Arya because she thought Arya was hiding something, not because she thought Sansa was straight. And it wasn’t like Sansa had anyone to bring home. None of them have, for a long time, and Sansa knows that is hard on her mother. 

“Margaery seems like a nice girl,” Cat finally says. 

Sansa beams. “She’s so wonderful. I know it’s only been a few weeks but I just look at her and …” 

Sansa sighs. She can’t put into words what she feels when she looks at Margaery. Just that she never wants to stop doing it. 

Cat finally smiles. “You sound like me. When I met your father.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Cat. She really does try. But she's had a lot of time to adjust to tomboy Arya and put all her girly child dreams on Sansa. And Arya definitely is not having a big poufy wedding dress if she marries Gendry, that's for sure.


	44. Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has zero intention of calling Jaime Lannister.

Brienne has no intention of calling Jaime Lannister. She really doesn’t.

She’s not sure why he gave her his number and offered to let her visit Brenna. Pity, probably. And fine, it was nicer than she expected from someone like him. In Brienne’s experience rich, handsome men who clearly get anything they want don’t care much about others. 

So it was kind enough, and it _did_ make her feel better about sending Brenna and the kittens home with Jaime. 

But she wasn’t going to _call_ him.

Then she has one of the worst days she’s had in a long time. Brienne is used to bad days. It’s part of her job, and she’d known when she went to vet school that it wasn’t going to be all joy and playing with puppies. She’s here to take care of animals when they’re sick or hurt and that isn’t happy. 

Still, it’s usually spread out. 

Then her day starts with news of an animal hoarding situation outside of town, an influx of dogs and cats (and, oddly, chickens) that the shelter can’t handle, many of whom are too sick or injured to be saved. Then Brienne leaves the shelter in Asha’s hands and goes to the clinic to be met with more sorrow and loss.

Some is unavoidable. Pets don’t live as long as people, they get sick, they get old and Brienne knows that. But while some of the cases fall into that category, she also has several of the kind she hates. The kind where an animal’s suffering could have been avoided with proper care, with an owner who gave a minimum of effort to keep a dog on a leash or a cat inside or stay up to date with preventative vaccines. 

And then the dog who has been exposed to rabies also bites Brienne, so she has to head off to the health clinic and let Doc Luwin jab her with the first of four incredibly painful injections, leaving her arm sore and throbbing. 

So Brienne is sad, she’s tired, and she can’t stop thinking about Brenna and how close the sweet cat had come to losing her life, just because people can’t be responsible owners. 

Before she knows it, Brienne is pulling out the phone and dialing Jaime Lannister (and honestly, who puts their own name in a phone as Most Handsome Cat Owner?) and asking if he meant it when he said she could visit.

Jaime clearly hasn’t expected her to call either, because he stumbles over his words and sounds shocked. But he refuses to let Brienne back out of asking, and it’s not long before she’s waiting in front of one of the nicer condo complexes in town. 

To Brienne’s surprise, Jaime meets her outside before she can ring the bell. 

“My brother has the cats,” he explains as he types a code to let them in. “Until Christmas morning.” 

Right, they’re a gift. Brienne still isn’t sure that’s wise. She doesn’t get a chance to say it, though, because they walk in and Brienne has the brief, disorienting sensation of becoming a giant. Or feeling like one. 

The furniture in the condo seems much smaller than usual and everything is just off, slightly, in a way Brienne can’t put a finger on.

At least not until a man walks out of one of the back rooms and Brienne sees he’s a dwarf. Or little person, she supposes, is the preferred nomenclature. 

It does explain why the furnishings make Brienne feel even more gigantic than normal. 

“You must be Brienne,” the man says, holding a hand out. “Tyrion, the smarter Lannister.” 

He has mismatched eyes and he’s nowhere near as handsome as Jaime, but there’s something about Tyrion that makes Brienne feel a little more at ease. She has to bend down slightly to greet him properly, but he smiles at her and doesn’t stare like she’s a freak.

The cats are being held in a back bedroom, to save Tyrion’s furniture from fur and claws. 

”It’s not exactly easy to find,” he says. “Custom made and all that. Jaime’s far less particular.”

Jaime mumbles something under his breath, but Brienne doesn’t hear it, because they’ve reached the bedroom and Brenna is curled up on the bed (normal size, Brienne notes, possibly larger than typical) in a sunbeam.

Brienne rushes over to the cat, stroking gently as Brenna wakes up and regards Brienne for a few seconds before starting to purr. There’s a startled noise of surprise from Tyrion – “she doesn’t do that for _me_ ” – and then Brenna is crawling into Brienne’s lap. Brienne pays no attention to anyone else in the room then, just holding the sweet cat and whispering into her fur how glad Brienne is that she found a home, even if it is with an insufferably wealthy, arrogantly pretty man, how lucky Brenna is to live in such a nice place, how happy and spoiled she looks now. Brenna basks in the attention, purring up a storm and rubbing her chin against Brienne’s fingers.

When Brienne feels more even-keeled, she finally looks up. Tyrion has slipped out at some point, but Brienne is alarmed to find Jaime is still there, idly waving a feather wand around for the kittens to pounce on. They’re bigger, alert and healthy, happily chasing the toy and climbing all over Jaime. 

Brienne wonders how closely Jaime has been listening to her.

“Sorry,” Brienne says, blush rising in her face. 

“I told you to call,” Jaime says. He offers a crooked smile. “I didn’t think you’d do it though.”

“I didn’t either,” Brienne admits. “It’s been a long day.”

“Working at an animal shelter must be hard,” Jaime says. “I looked it up, after. How many animals wind up there.”

“And the clinic,” Brienne adds. “Most people are great owners, but some...”

“Clinic?” 

“I’m a vet,” Brienne says, realizing she never mentioned it before. “Asha — Dr. Greyjoy and I took over when the Manderlys retired.”

Something in Jaime’s face shifts.

“The mysterious Dr. Tarth,” he says. “I wondered.”

Brienne tilts her head, so confused she forgets to pet Brenna. The cat chirps a protest. 

“I handled the loan application,” Jaime explains.

Jaime _Lannister_. Lannister Bank. Wealthy. The pieces suddenly slot together in Brienne’s mind. 

Jaime tosses the feather toy down and the kittens rush on it. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, closer to Brienne. This near to him, Brienne can see flecks of silver starting to form in his golden hair and beard, the way his green eyes have several shades of emerald and jade.

“She’s not this cuddly with me or Tyrion,” Jaime says, looking down at Brenna. He reaches over to pet her as well, his fingers brushing lightly against Brienne’s.

Brienne tries to ignore the tingling sensation she gets when his hand touches her skin. Instead, she watches the kittens, one of whom has picked up the feather toy by the stick and is dragging it across the room, the other kitten chasing the feather as it trails behind.

“It takes time,” she says, hoping the increasing redness in her face isn’t too obvious. “She’s had it rough, she doesn’t know who to trust.”

“Staying here probably doesn’t help,” Jaime says. “But I want to surprise Tommen, so Tyrion’s watching them until Christmas. I know Tommen’d love them just as much now but he’s had it rough and I just want it to be special for him.”

“Your nephew,” Brienne remembers. 

“Tommen Baratheon,” Jaime confirms. “I know a cat isn’t much consolation for having your mother and brother murder your father but...”

He shrugs helplessly.

“You think she did it, then?” Brienne has heard the story. Everyone in town has. Varys is having a field day at The Weekly Spyder. 

“My sister? Absolutely.” Jaime shakes his head. “The younger kids, they’re not... They haven’t had it easy. So anything I can do.”

It’s a far different story than Brienne would have expected to hear when Jaime walked into the shelter, looking around like he was entitled to anything he wanted from the worn out building. 

Brenna is delighted to have two people petting her, stretching out on Brienne’s lap to better receive her adoration. It’s oddly peaceful, considering Brienne is in a strange house with a man she doesn’t know. Usually, she would be frantic, worrying about doing something wrong. But Jaime doesn’t seem to be judging her, at least, not outwardly.

Still, Brienne has responsibilities, and her own cats to take care of, so she can’t stay in this odd cocoon of warmth for long. 

“I’ve taken up too much of your time already,” Brienne says. Brenna gives a cranky meow when she’s nudged out of Brienne’s lap and back onto the bed. Jaime walks Brienne to the door, one hand hovering at the small of her back. Brienne waves goodbye to Tyrion, who is busy clattering around in the kitchen, as they pass.

“Would a hug help?” Jaime asks suddenly, as Brienne finishes buttoning her coat. 

“What?”

Jaime looks a little sheepish. “I hear they’re good for when you’re having a bad day.”

The way he says it is strange, like hugs aren’t a familiar concept. Brienne is opening her mouth to say no, because hugs _do_ help but she doesn’t know Jaime, if she wants a hug she’ll go see her father or maybe Sansa, but not some strange man. 

Except somehow no comes out as yes. 

Jaime is just a tiny bit shorter than Brienne and his arms wrap around her easily, Brienne awkwardly bringing hers around his waist. Jaime’s face is next to her own, his breath warm against her ear, ruffling her hair slightly. He smells like sandalwood and pine, his body a firm line of muscle against Brienne’s own.

They stay like that for a few moments, longer than Brienne thinks they should, for two strangers, before Jaime releases her and takes a step back.

“You should come see Brenna again,” he says. “Call anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Brenna so much, and I love old cats. And young cats. All cats, really.


	45. Snuggled Up Together Like Two Birds Of A Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime doesn't know why Tyrion thinks there's something going on with him and Brienne.

“Well, that was certainly cozy.” Tyrion pauses from stirring whatever he has on the stove, smirking at Jaime, who is shutting the door of the condo.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jaime doesn’t know what Tyrion’s making, but it smells amazing. It never ceases to amuse him how much his younger brother has taken to cooking. Certainly it isn’t something either of them learned growing up, when the family had personal chefs. 

Not to mention, their father would have been horrified by either of his sons doing anything so domestic. 

Jaime thinks Tyrion started learning to cook sometime during one of his periodic estrangements and disinheritances, when Tyrion must have realized how expensive eating out actually was. 

It’s probably the smart thing, but Jaime has never found the motivation to go beyond restaurants and the prepared meals one of the family chefs prepares and delivers to his freezer 

Well, that’s not entirely true. He has learned to make breakfast potatoes and what his college roommate called half-assed chilaquiles. Jaime’d learned those in college, dealing with hangovers that made the prospect of going out or eating healthy food seem miserable. 

“You and the cat lady,” Tyrion clarifies. “Why did she come over again?”

“She had a bad day.” Jaime thinks about what he’s learned since his first visit to the animal shelter. Maybe he’s naive or ignorant, but he’s really never considered what happens to animals nobody wants. His father hates pets, so they never were allowed any as children and the idea of pet ownership is something Jaime never really contemplated in any detail.

It makes him feel sick to his stomach to think that animals who don’t get adopted, because they’re older or not cute enough or too quiet or too loud, get killed if they can’t find a home in time. 

“So she called a total stranger?” 

“I told her she could,” Jaime says. “The older cat, Brenna, she’s been at the shelter more than a year, and they were going to put her down if she didn’t get adopted.”

Tyrion looks suitably horrified. 

“And the surly wench almost _cried_ when she was handing her over.” Jaime shrugs helplessly. “I felt bad, I said she could visit if she wanted. That’s all.”

“Because you’re known for your infinite compassion for strangers,” Tyrion says

Jaime’s not _that_ bad, honestly.

“I can be nice.” He glares at Tyrion. 

“And do you always spill your family troubles to surly wenches?” Tyrion’s voice is mocking. “And stare longingly at them?”

“Were you _eavesdropping_?” It’s a stupid question, of course Tyrion was listening. 

“And looking through the crack in the door,” Tyrion confirms. 

“And I was not staring longingly,” Jaime adds. “She’s judgmental and cranky. She almost kept me from adopting the cats, because she thinks pets are bad ideas for gifts! And she hardly ever smiles.”

“Yes, I always notice the expressions of strangers I don’t care about,” Tyrion says. “And then give them my phone number and let them come over and invade their personal space so I can touch them and give them hugs. Absolutely.”

Jaime had not been doing any such thing. Brienne had been sad, that’s all, and it has nothing to do with anything else. The woman isn’t even attractive, with her almost masculine features and men’s clothing. Jaime just thinks it’s a shame she doesn’t smile more, because next to her eyes, it’s her best feature and does so much to transform her dour, homely face. It’s for her own good Jaime is trying to cheer her up, really. 

“She was _sad_ ,” Jaime says. “There’s nothing cozy about it.”

Brienne just seems to have some secret way with Brenna. Jaime wanted to see if Brienne did something different, if she had some trick that makes Brenna purr.

It doesn’t seem like she does. It just appears Brenna likes the cat wench more than anyone else. Considering how much money Jaime has already spent on supplies and high-quality food, he’s a little insulted.

The kittens like him at least. Though Jaime wishes they’d stop attacking his hands. He’s got so many scratches all over now because they can’t seem to distinguish the difference between toys and people. 

“Hmm.” Tyrion goes back to stirring, then checks something in the oven. “Well, at least now you have her number too.” 

Tyrion is ridiculous. Just because Jaime has Brienne’s phone number doesn’t mean he’s going to use it.

They’ll probably never see each other again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a non cat owner and a handsome man, Jaime is definitely new to the concept of having to earn another creature's affection.


	46. She Looks So Sad And Lonely There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne loves her father, but his dreams for her are out of reach, sometimes.

Brienne has really missed Saturday mornings with her dad. She knows it’s selfish and a little bit childish, but not being able to spend that time at his kitchen table, lingering over French toast and cups of strong coffee, chatting about whatever’s going on in their lives or in the world, has been hard for her the past few months.

Brienne knows it’s been important that Selwyn get everything running smoothly at the restaurant, even when it means working an insane number of hours, but it doesn’t mean Brienne is happy about it. It feels like when she was away at school — she’d accepted the reality, but always felt a little bit out of sorts. Even after coaxing Asha into a similar routine, albeit one with a much more hungover companion. Asha definitely appreciated the French toast part, though.

Still, Brienne is filled with a kind of joy she hasn’t felt in a while, when Selwyn tells her he finally has things settled enough to leave young Podrick to get it all started before they open for lunch. 

Of course, she hasn’t been thinking about the Weekly Spyder when she’s been anticipating their breakfast.

To his credit, Selwyn waits until they’re almost done to bring it up, having been chatting quietly about Evenfall’s, the clinic, and Sansa’s invitation for them to join the Starks for Christmas dinner. 

“So, when were you going to tell me about your young man?” Selwyn wipes his face with a napkin, eyes sparkling above the white cloth. Brienne just knows he’s smirking behind it.

“He’s not my young man.”

“I haven’t known you to go around kissing many boys.” Selwyn does sound genuinely surprised.

Brienne knows she’s turning a brilliant shade of fuschia.

“I didn’t kiss him, there was mistletoe and — it wasn’t real.”

Her father turns serious. “Did he force himself?”

“No!” Brienne may be horribly embarrassed, but that’s no reason to make it seem like Addam did something awful. “He asked, I was just surprised and …”

“So he was just having fun, he’s not interested in you?”

“He gave me his phone number,” Brienne admits. If only because Selwyn looks like he might find Addam and give him a lesson in treating women well, possibly with his fists. “Asha thinks I should go out with him.”

“She’s always been a smart one, that Asha.”

Her father’s friendship with Asha is terrifying, and there are days when Brienne regrets ever bringing her then-roomate home for a visit. 

“So,” her father prompts. “Do I get to know anything about this gentleman?”

“His name is Addam. Sansa says he’s a lawyer.” Brienne starts clearing the dishes, needing something to do with her hands. “He said he thought we should get to know each other and he’d like it if I gave him a call.” 

“Well, that all sounds promising.” 

“He was probably just pitying me.”

“Starlight, don’t say that.” Selwyn looks so sad, in a way that makes Brienne feel guilty for being the disappointment of a daughter she is. She knows her father doesn’t see it that way, but he also doesn’t seem to understand that the things he hopes for her are impossible. “You’re a wonderful girl. I’m sure this Addam will see that.”

“I doubt that.”

Brienne doesn’t know how to put it all into words. How she’s already feeling dangerously close to reviving the spark of dreams she’d held as a child. She doesn’t know if it’s Addam’s kiss, which was pleasant if not movie-worthy and earth-shaking, or the way Jaime had hugged her so unexpectedly and she’d been surrounded by masculine warmth. 

Brienne rarely has any physical contact with men she’s not related to, and all of the recent happenings have made it far too easy to realize what she’s missing.

It’s easier not to want these things, the things Brienne knows aren’t for women like her, when she isn’t reminded of them. She does have plenty of love in her life, from her father, from Asha in her own violent and strange way, from her uncles and Goodwin back home. Maybe even from Sansa, someday soon, a fascinatingly determined and fluffy kind of affection that Brienne doesn’t quite understand yet. It’s a lot, more than Brienne ever expected, and she can be happy with that.

It’s just not romantic love, and Brienne has worked very hard to be okay with that.

But then she has those moments, moments of feeling for a minute that she might get to be like any other woman. The kind of woman men would hug or kiss or … well, Brienne doesn’t even want to think too hard about anything beyond that. 

If she goes out with Addam Brienne can predict how it will go, even if it’s not a cruel joke. He’ll see her in the light of day, free of the influence of alcohol and mistletoe and whatever party spirit makes people do crazy things. If what Asha and Sansa say is correct, he’ll be very polite about it. They’ll get food or coffee, and everyone will look at them strangely and wonder what such a handsome man is doing with Brienne. Then at the end of the date, he’ll tell her he’s sorry but he doesn’t want to see her again. Maybe, just maybe, if they have a lot in common somehow, he’ll gently explain that he’d like to be friends with her and nothing more. 

But that little part inside Brienne that she can’t seem to kill will get another breath of oxygen. Another hope that a beautiful man could look at her and see something to want and all that comes from that is tears and disappointment.

“I still need to know what you want for Christmas. It’s getting late,” Brienne says, changing the subject abruptly

Selwyn sighs. “I told you, I don’t need anything.”

“I didn’t ask what you needed.” Brienne knows she’s being unnecessarily short. “I asked what you wanted.” 

“I want you to see yourself like others do.” Selwyn doesn’t let Brienne escape, catching her hands in his. “I want you to give love a chance, I want you to find someone who will see how magnificent you are, and give them the opportunity to love you. That’s my only wish.” 

Brienne finds herself blinking back tears. 

“I can’t buy that at Cregan’s,” she finally grumbles. “Surely you can come up with something else.” 

Selwyn just smiles sadly at her. Brienne sighs. 

This is going to end up nowhere good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all of you who are of a certain age, read the chapter title, and now have Absolutely (Story of a Girl) stuck in your head, I'm so sorry. It's stuck in mine too, if that helps?I'l just be digging out my Nine Days CD to see if there are other potential titles in the album.


	47. So White As Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has really underestimated how quickly snow could make it impossible to drive.

Brienne really should have listened when Asha told her to get going before the storm hit. But she hadn’t wanted to feed the animals who are boarding or staying to recover too early and she’d had plenty of paperwork to catch up on. Plus some research she’d needed to do. And last time she’d looked, the snow was the gentle drifting of flakes that Brienne still finds so charming.

Only now, the snow is not so gentle. It’s sheets of fat, wet flakes piling up on the roads and sidewalks and everywhere else. Brienne’s car is encased in a mound of white, and while she’s brushed the top off and cleared her windshield, getting out of the parking lot is proving more of a challenge than she’d anticipated. 

Driving forward hasn’t worked. Driving backwards hasn’t worked. Driving forward then back hasn’t worked. Now Brienne is behind her car, pushing as hard as she can, and unable to move it, despite driving a relatively lightweight hybrid. 

Brienne is just about to give up and resign herself to a long, cold walk home when an overly large, flashy SUV rolls to a stop beside her. 

The surge of relief Brienne feels twists into nerves when she realizes it’s Jaime Lannister rolling down the window. 

He’s absolutely going to have something to say about her predicament.

Sure enough, a slow smirk grows across Jaime’s face as he surveys the scene. Brienne, red and sweaty, strands of hair plastered to her face where they’ve escaped from her hat, shoving valiantly at a car. 

“Problems?” Jaime drawls. Brienne glares at him.

Jaime parks the car and gets out, making a circuit around her hybrid. 

“I really underestimated the snow,” Brienne admits. 

Jaime kicks at the tires.

“You need winter tires,” he informs her. “And a better car.”

“It’s a perfectly fine car.” 

Jaime’s face, as he looks from the car to the snow to the sky, says everything. 

“Fine, can you help me push?” Brienne starts rolling up her sleeves but Jaime shakes his head. 

“No way you’re getting that out without a shovel,” he says. “And maybe some sand.” 

Brienne sighs. “Well, at least walking is good exercise.”

“What are you talking about?” Jaime looks perplexed. “I’ll give you a ride. Come on.” 

“Oh, I can’t.” Brienne isn’t sure she wants to be trapped in a car right now, not even for a short time, with Jaime. Not after her humiliatingly weak decision to call him about Brenna, or the strange hug he’d offered, probably never thinking she’d actually accept.

He must think Brienne is so pathetic.

“Do you want to die of hypothermia?”

“It’s not that cold —”

“It is.” Jaime frowns at her. “Get in the car, Brienne.”

The car is warm, at least, and comfortable with heated seats when Jaime shoos a teen girl out of the passenger side and into the back next to a quiet blond boy who is staring out the window. 

“Who gets stuck in the snow?” the girl mutters.

“Brienne isn’t from here, Myrcy,” Jaime says sharply. He looks over at Brienne, a small smile on his face. “Sorry about that. We’re working on the attitude.”

“I can hear you,” Myrcy says from the backseat.

Brienne isn’t sure what she‘ is supposed to say to Jaime, since the only safe topic conversation is off limits around the kids. What’s even worse is the drive, usually only fifteen minutes or so, takes twice as long as Jaime inches along on the icy streets. 

Luckily they seem to be the only car out on the road, everyone else having had the sense to get where they needed to be already. 

“Are you sure it’s not out of your way?” Brienne has asked already, but she can’t help it, as they edge past the homes closest to downtown. 

“It’s fine.” Jaime glances over. “I can’t let you freeze, can I? Addam will be disappointed.”

“Our house is five blocks back there,” Myrcy says, jerking a thumb at the rearview. Then she goes back to her phone.

Brienne turns red with embarrassment, not sure if it’s from making Jaime go out of his way or yet another person having seen that stupid photo. 

“I hate Varys,” she says. “It’s not — it was mistletoe, I’m sure he didn’t mean it, it’s not anything. Addam wouldn’t even notice.”

Jaime laughs a little. “I’m sure he’d notice.”

“Addam and I have been friends for years,” Jaime says, after they’ve crept past a few more houses. “I’m sure he meant it but he’s well … I wouldn’t take it too seriously.”

Brienne stiffens. So much for what Asha and Sansa say, she’s been right all along. There’s something behind Addam’s strange behavior.

Something of what she is thinking must show on her face, because Jaime glances over again and hastily explains further. 

“I mean, he would definitely mean to kiss you,” Jaime says, his voice skipping weirdly as he says it. “Addam’s just, well.” Jaime glances at the backseat. “Addam likes women. A lot.” 

Brienne isn’t entirely sure what to make of that.

“I mean, he’s definitely, uh, a good time,” Jaime continues. “If that’s what you’re looking for. And he’s not going to be a jerk, he just isn’t so much a long time.”

Jaime pauses, then speaks again. “A long-term time. Addam would kill me if I made him sound less than excellent at … well.”

Brienne’s face heats up even more as she realizes exactly what Jaime is implying. Which is certainly not what she’s looking for. 

“I mean, maybe he’s changed,” Jaime rambles. “I don’t mean to make him sound terrible. If he was going to settle down, you’re probably exactly the type of woman he’d pick.” 

“Boring and grateful,” Brienne offers, only somewhat bitterly. She’s heard that kind of reassurance before, of what men will settle for eventually. They’ll get tired of high-maintenance women and want someone steady and predictable to wait at home for them.

Jaime gives her a strange look.

“Strong and intelligent and not going to take any of his bullshit.” Jaime glances in the rearview. 

“You said bullshit,” Myrcy announces. “I thought we weren’t supposed to swear.”

“ _You’re_ not supposed to swear,” Jaime says. “I’m an adult. I can do what I want.” 

“Anyway, just some advice.” Jaime gives Brienne a little smile. “It’s easy to get taken in by Addam’s charm.”

“I don’t even know if I’m going to call him.” Brienne manages to give Jaime a small smile in return. “He probably doesn’t — I know I’m not the kind of woman men want for any sort of time.”

Jaime’s smile grows. “You can smile,” he says, sounding surprised. “I thought that scowl was permanently affixed to your face.”

The smile drops from Brienne’s face abruptly, and Jaime laughs.

Then they’re finally pulling up to Brienne’s building. It’s perfectly nice, but Jaime makes a little face at it. 

“You should smile more, wench,” Jaime says. “It makes your eyes look even nicer.” 

He shuts the door before Brienne can object to being referred to as wench. Maybe the cold is getting to everyone, because that is certainly the strangest car ride Brienne has ever had. But she’ll worry about it later, after she’s inside and warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Jaime. So concerned out of JUST FRIENDLINESS OKAY??


	48. So Kiss Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa loves baking cookies but Margaery makes it tough to focus.

“Did a cookie explosion happen while I slept?”

Sansa grins as Margaery makes her way out of Sansa’s bedroom. She’s wearing nothing but her candy cane striped panties and the Christmas sweater she’d worn the previous night. 

Sansa would like nothing more than to drag Margaery back to bed immediately, but her hands are covered in dough and also she has a deadline.

“For Christmas Eve,” Sansa says. The oven dings and Sansa curses. “Can you grab those?”

Margaery still looks perplexed as she grabs the tray of snickerdoodles from the oven and puts them on the towel Sansa indicates. 

“The ones on the rack can go in that tin,” Sansa says. 

“How long have you been awake?” Margaery blinks sleepily at the counter. “And how many cookies are you making?”

“Six,” Sansa says. “And I don’t know. Ten dozen? Eleven? Give or take.”

She finishes rolling the last of the snickerdoodles in sugar and cinnamon, putting the trays in the oven and rinsing her hands. 

“Spritz,” Sansa says, pointing at cookie tins. “Vanilla crescents, Grandfather cookies, snickerdoodles, and there are merry cheesecakes in the fridge. All that’s left are jam thumbprints and gingerbread men, if you want to help decorate?” 

Sansa feels suddenly uncertain. She’s not sure how much time she and Margaery are supposed to be spending together at this point. Their latest date technically started Friday night, and they spent Friday night and Saturday night at Marge’s, coming back to Sansa’s on Sunday after church. They’d snuck in late, taking a pew at the back to avoid having to pick a family to sit with. Maybe Margaery wants to go home, not hang out with Sansa making cookies.

“That’s a lot of cookies,” is all Margaery says. 

“Fourteen people,” Sansa reminds her. “Well, seventeen for dinner, I convinced Brienne and her father to come.”

Then she sees Margaery’s hand sneaking toward a tin of spritz cookies. Sansa reaches out and slaps it away.

“No snacking!” 

Margaery pouts. It makes Sansa want to forget the cookies and haul Margaery onto a counter to do things that are definitely not sanitary in a baking environment. 

“But breakfast,” Margaery whines. 

“Cranberry orange muffins.” Sansa points to the top of the fridge. “They should still be warm, I think. Sleepyhead.”

Margaery sticks her tongue out. It makes Sansa think even more inappropriate thoughts, mostly about where Marge’s tongue was last night and how much more fun that would be than making cookies. And Sansa loves making cookies. 

Still, Margaery fixes a muffin without complaint, sitting at the table and trying to contain the crumbs. Sansa can’t resist kissing her on the top of her head as she walks past, gathering ingredients to make the gingerbread dough that needs to chill. 

“Love your muffins, Sans,” Margaery says with a smirk that is downright lewd. 

“No distractions.” Sansa mixes a little more vigorously than needed. Batter slops over the edge of the bowl. Marge leans over to swipe a finger through it, sucking the dough off while batting her eyelashes.

Baking cookies isn’t exactly easier with Margaery around, lounging on the chair with no pants, making suggestive comments and trying to seduce Sansa back to bed. But it is more fun, sitting together and pushing their thumbs into the thumbprint batter, filling the wells with different flavors of jam and cutting out gingerbread men.

So maybe they have a little break, when Sansa gets jam on her cheek somehow, and Margaery goes to lick it off and they spend a while trading kisses. Sansa only pushes Margaery off her lap when the oven buzzes, trying her best to walk normally and pretend she’s not terribly aroused.

Unsurprisingly, Margaery proves excellent at decorating the cookies. Sansa sticks to the typical icing outlines and faces, but Marge goes all-out, making different gingerbread people. She even does Finn, Poe, and Rey from the new Star Wars movie, obligingly holding them up while Sansa snaps photos.

“This is fun,” Margaery comments as they’re working through the last trays of cookies. She finishes piping icing on a very detailed Santa. 

“You family doesn’t bake?” 

“My mother shouldn’t be allowed near a kitchen unless you want someone dead,” Margaery says. “And Grandmother is more of a cook. She doesn’t bake. Her coq au vin is fantastic, though. We order cookies — this year I think we’re getting Seven Sisters.” 

Well, at least they’re good cookies. Sansa shudders in horror to think of eating plain, boxed grocery store cookies at Christmas. 

“They aren’t home baked, though,” Margaery says, as they finish packing up the gingerbread. 

Sansa purses her lips. “These are for Christmas.”

“Aw, come on.” Margaery bats her eyelashes again. “Trade you a vanilla crescent for a kiss.”

“You’ll kiss me anyway,” Sansa says. But she hands over the cookie anyway and Margaery squeals with delight.

A vanilla crescent, it turns out, can get Sansa a lot more than a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In our continuing 90s nostalgia tour, have some Sixpence None The Richer. YOU'RE WELCOME.


	49. Whisper What You'll Bring To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Tyrion's surprise, the bookstore is pretty popular with last-minute Christmas shoppers.

Tyrion is surprised to get so many last minute shoppers in a bookstore. But the days leading up to Christmas are exceptionally busy for Between the Covers. 

Tyrion takes a certain amount of satisfaction over it, especially as he goes over his books and realizes he’s going to end the year profitably, despite his father’s dire predictions.

The way Tywin had reacted when Tyrion announced he’d be leaving the bank to open the shop, you’d think he’d announced he was starting a career as a corner drug dealer and pimp. 

Baelish has the market cornered on drugs and whores, though, so Tyrion really couldn’t get in on that even if he wanted to.

Which he doesn’t. Tyrion finds doing drugs and hiring whores more enjoyable than selling either. Or he did, when he was in his 20s.

At any rate, it’s not like Tyrion relies on the income from the store to survive. Years of working at the bank, combined with the trust fund from his mother and all the money saved while living off his father when he worked at the family business left him plenty. Add in some smart investments, and Tyrion could go lie on a beach in Aruba for the rest of his life if he felt so inclined.

But almost a year in, Tyrion is pleased to see that his shop is attracting a good number of customers. Even if an alarming number of them read nothing but mass market paperbacks and he’s had to add a comics section after an annoying number of requests. Mostly from Sam Tarly. 

Still, there are a few people in town who have broader tastes, and Tyrion is working on curating different displays to try and expose people to books that don’t feature murder or explicit and cringe-worthy sex scenes.

His current display features books on the pagan origins of Christmas, folklore relating to said pagan origins, and several books on hygge. Plus a few beautifully illustrated Christmas books for children, to satisfy the families that come in.

When the bell jingles on December 23rd, Tyrion expects to be directing yet another person looking for whatever book the New York Times or some morning show insists will make a perfect holiday gift for everyone.

As if there’s one book that everyone will enjoy, as if reading isn’t personal and subjective.

Instead, Tysha from the fabric store slams her hands down on the counter, looking frantic.

“I need help and I’m desperate,” she says without preamble.

Tyrion blinks. 

He’d help any customer who came in, but Tyrion is feeling especially grateful to Tysha, who has recently presented him with a stuffed pillow and basket cover in Christmas fabric so adorable it made Tyrion want to watch a few hours of depressing documentaries to regain his usual cynicism. The fabric, Tysha had informed him, is flannel so the kittens can use it as a blanket after the holiday.

Jaime is going to love it. 

Hopefully so will Tommen. 

Tyrion climbs down off his chair and walks to the front of the counter. It’s somewhat frustrating to have a counter that he can’t see over, but asking average people to bend almost double to check out on a counter Tyrion finds comfortable doesn’t seem like the wisest business strategy. So he has a very tall stool and a hidden step stool to compensate.

Tysha, it emerges, needs a Christmas present for her father. And she is out of ideas for something he’ll like. 

“What does he read?” Tyrion asks. 

“He doesn’t,” Tysha says. “But he doesn’t have any hobbies and a book at least — well.”

Tysha’s father, she explains, had been a farmer until a combine accident left him in a wheelchair and unable to do any of the things he’s used to. He’s perfectly fine from the waist up, but that’s the problem.

“He’s bored,” Tysha says. “He’s a farmer, he hasn’t had spare time since he was in grade school. Now he’s got nothing but time and he has no idea what to do with it. He needs a hobby, one that doesn’t involve walking.”

Tyrion tries to probe deeper but he gets nowhere. No hobbies. No interests other than having worked his whole life. 

Tysha’s father sounds a lot like Tyrion’s, really, except he must be kinder, if the way Tysha is so diligently looking for a gift is any indication. 

And it’s the day for difficult fathers, apparently, because the bell rings again to admit an equally flustered Dr. Tarth.

“He used to read murder mysteries,” Dr. Tarth says, while Tyrion keeps half an eye on Tysha browsing through the store’s agriculture collection. It’s mostly how-to books for hobbyists and memoirs from homesteaders who seem to think nobody has lived off the land until they quit their corporate job to give it a try. Tyrion doesn’t think much there would interest an actual farmer. “But I don’t think he really liked them, his crew just left a lot of them on the boat. Now he’s got the pizza place but I need to get him something for Christmas.” 

That gets Tyrion’s attention. 

“Your father runs Evenfall’s?” 

“It’s been his dream for years,” Dr. Tarth says. “When I moved here, he decided to give it a shot.”

“It’s the best thing to happen to Westeros in decades,” Tysha says. Tyrion can only nod his agreement. 

Not only does it mean no more driving forty minutes for pizza, there’s even delivery. 

Tyrion isn’t sure his brother and niblings would get dinner at all many nights if it weren’t for Evenfall’s. Tyrion’s tried, but last time Jaime tried to cook he got distracted, left the pot on the stove and the water all burned away and the heat half-melted the bottom, leaving the pot misshapen and lopsided.

Tyrion didn’t know that was even possible. 

“I don’t suppose either of your fathers mentioned anything they’d like?” Tyrion doesn’t have much hope. People only seem to come to the bookstore for gifts if they have a particular book in mind or if they’re totally lost and out of ideas. 

Unfortunately, Tysha and Jaime’s cat wench seem to fall into the latter category. 

“For me to be happy and loved,” Dr. Tarth says glumly. 

Tyrion wonders, briefly, if he could just stick a bow on Jaime and deliver him to Evenfall’s with a note to lock him and Dr. Tarth in a room until they figure out there’s enough sexual tension between them to start a small fire. 

Probably not. 

Tysha is nodding her agreement, also looking depressed. 

Tyrion wonders what he would do if his father said he wanted Tyrion to be happy and loved.

Probably have him committed for a psychiatric evaluation. 

The two women seem to have reached some sort of spontaneous understanding and are commiserating with each other. 

“He doesn’t understand that I _am_ happy,” Tyrion hears Tysha saying as he heads off down the aisles. “If I meet someone that’s great, but I do like my life.”

“I’ve accepted that it’s not going to happen,” Dr. Tarth is telling Tysha, when Tyrion returns with a stack of books. “I know what I look like. But he just won’t see it.” 

Oh lord. Tyrion knows low self-esteem when he hears it, and from Dr. Tarth’s tone, she’s never going to make the first move in a relationship.

That leaves it on _Jaime_ , and Tyrion’s well aware of how terrible his brother is at flirting. And women in general.

Tyrion is never going to get niblings that don’t come from his demonspawn sister. 

That’s a problem for later, though, and books are the problem for now. As is endearing himself to both women, albeit for different reasons.

Well, the same reason, Tyrion supposes, but for different people. He has no interest in the Amazonian cat lady, even if they wouldn’t look ridiculous together. Tyrion would need a stepladder to do anything. 

In the end, Tysha ends up with a book on farmers who survived the dust bowl, while Dr. Tarth walks out with a book on the spread of Italian food throughout the world. 

Tyrion hopes they’ll both return soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can, in fact, melt the bottom of dry pot. I don't remember if it was because my mother meant to turn on the oven to preheat but accidentally turned on the stove, or if it was just turning the wrong burner on, but yeah. At any rate, other than being lopsided, it's still fine and I now own a lovely, slightly tilted avocado green pot great for making pasta.


	50. All Is Calm, All Is Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve is supposed to be a time for happiness and reflection and family. Not ... Tywin.

“I love this season,” Tyrion mutters, voice as dry as the Sahara.

Jaime glares from where he’s kneeling down to finish buttoning Tommen’s red shirt. Myrcella is already dressed in her sparkly red dress and green tights. She’s still sulking about not being allowed the sleeveless one that was too tight and too short for her age, at least in Jaime’s opinion. 

“I didn’t know he was going to come.” Jaime looks again at his phone. The text from Tywin is still there, informing Jaime he will meet the family at church for the afternoon service. 

Tywin hasn’t been to church since… well, Jaime doesn’t know when. Not that Jaime goes regularly either, but Christmas and Easter seem like the kind of thing he should be doing with the kids at the very least.

Maybe he should be taking them every week? Jaime really doesn’t know. He remembers going to weekly services as a small child, remembers pulling on shiny dress shoes too early on Sunday, his mother dabbing a bit of her perfume behind Cersei’s ears, the hard pews and slightly dusty smell of hymnals. 

“I hope he bursts into flame when he crosses the doorstep,” Tyrion continues. 

“I thought that would be you,” Jaime says.

“I’m not evil, I’m _debauched_.” Tyrion smooths out his jacket. “There’s a difference.” 

Jaime isn’t entirely sure that’s the official viewpoint of religion, but who knows? It certainly wouldn’t be acceptable at Preacher Sparrow’s church, but Father Meribald has always seemed like a fairly reasonable guy. Jaime may not do religion, but he appreciates a clergy member who’s up for a couple of beers and a game of pool at Littlefinger’s.

He won’t play with Mother Donyse, though. That woman’s a pool shark, priesthood be damned.

The church is beautiful, evergreen wreaths and garlands strung along the stone walls, poinsettias on the altar. It smells like pine and incense and Jaime is suddenly thrown back to a memory of walking into this same church with his parents at Christmas. He had his mother’s hand on one side, Cersei on the other, and Joanna’s stomach was gently rounded with pregnancy. It must have been the last time Jaime was in a church for Christmas. He remembers snuggling into his mother’s fur coat while the service went on, the sound of his mother telling Tywin not to bother the children when he tried to make Jaime sit up and pay attention.

“Let’s find a pew with people in it.” Tyrion’s voice interrupts Jaime’s reminiscing. “Then he’ll have to sit somewhere else.”

Jaime doesn’t think that will stop Tywin, but it’s worth a shot. The choir is singing hymns as people file in, and though they’re half an hour early, the church is rapidly filling up. The Starks take up a couple of pews on their own, the Tyrells in another at the front, Olenna’s holly topped hat standing out in the crowd. The Freys take up almost half of one side, old Walder and his disturbingly young wife (who is younger than some of the man’s grandchildren) at the front and the rest crammed in after.

Jaime recognizes the curly, dark hair of Tommen’s teacher, who is standing next to a slim, bald man who also looks familiar. Both of them wave at Tommen, who eagerly waves back, when they see the group.

There’s another pew with the Boltons spread out, taking up far too much space but Jaime is not touching that spot with a ten foot pole, nope, he likes living very much. 

Then Jaime spots a now-familiar blond head towering over the crowd. “I know just the place.”

Unsurprisingly, Brienne scowls at them as they file into the pew. The man next to her is even taller than she is, with salt and pepper hair and a beard that’s more salt than pepper. His eyes are the same stunning blue as Brienne’s, though, so he must be her father.

“I thought I told you to smile more, wench.” Jaime grins at her as she focuses very hard on her bulletin. “It is Christmas after all.”

Brienne opens her mouth to retort, then looks at the children sitting next to Jaime.

“Yes it is,” she says, though she sounds like she’s not merry about it at all. Her father, who has been watching them, seems deeply amused. 

Jaime thinks they might actually get away with Tyrion’s plan, at least until there’s a clearing throat and Tywin is looming at the edge of the pew. Or trying to. Next to Selwyn, Jaime’s father isn’t impressive at all. 

It’s deeply satisfying.

“If you might excuse us,” Tywin says. Jaime sees Aunt Genna hovering behind him. Uncle Kevan sure to be close behind. “I would like to sit with my son and grandchildren.”

“Sons,” Tyrion grumbles next to Jaime, loud enough to be heard by all.

Jaime can tell Brienne is about to agree and grabs her wrist before she can move. 

“Don’t you dare,” he hisses in her ear. Then raises his voice. “They were here first, I’m afraid.” 

Tywin stares at Jaime. Jaime stares back. 

“Well then, let’s find another spot.” 

Jaime makes a show of looking around. “It’s pretty crowded.”

“There are other pews,” Brienne offers. She hasn’t jerked free of Jaime’s grasp, though she certainly is strong enough to do so.

“This one suits me fine.” Jaime keeps staring at his father, not breaking eye contact, until Tywin seems to realize other people are looking and he’s causing a scene. 

Tywin can’t give up entirely, of course, and there’s a flurry of whispers and shuffling, and then the rest of the Lannisters are filing into the pew behind them. Though Tryion and Jaime do squish over to make room for Joy, because Lancel is glowering at her and taking up more than his fair share of space. 

And Joy is nice, which is more than Jaime can say for most of his cousins.

It puts Jaime closer to Brienne and he is surprised to smell flowers and something that makes him think of the ocean. He sniffs again just to be sure. 

“I didn’t take you for a perfume type,” Jaime says. Brienne’s knuckles turn white where she’s clenching her hymnal. 

“It’s nice,” Jaime adds hastily, before she can punch him. “I like it.” 

Brienne doesn’t get a chance to respond, because the processional is starting and Jaime is left scrambling to find his place in the service. Some of the words come back surprisingly easy, like they’re buried deep in his memory. The hymns, at least, are familiar Christmas songs. Tommen mouths the words, but Jaime can hear Aunt Genna’s full-throated soprano behind him and Brienne’s surprisingly pleasant alto voice next to him. 

After Father Meribald says “The peace of the Lord is always with you” and the congregation responds “And also with you,” Jaime can’t help needling Brienne by taking her outstretched hand and pulling her into a hug instead. 

Brienne is as sturdy as she was the last time Jaime hugged her, and Jaime feels the same odd urge to linger there, leaning on the strength of this woman who is still a virtual stranger. 

Jaime notices Aunt Genna hugging Selwyn a bit longer than is necessary and raises an eyebrow at the way Brienne’s father gazes down at Genna’s ample cleavage. Tywin is as stiff as usual, shaking hands with both children. Brienne’s father looks back and then gathers Tommen and Myrcella into big hugs while Tywin looks on with a scowl. Even Myrcella seems pleased by it, probably because Selwyn gives off the kind of air that seems like he could be anyone’s grandfather.

Well, not Jaime’s, because he was as uptight and disproving as Tywin, but the idealized kind of grandfather. Jaime wonders if he keeps those gross butterscotch candies in his pockets.

Tyrion is smirking at Jaime as the peace finishes up, and Jaime has a brief moment of panic as he wonders what his brother could be plotting now. But then it’s gone in a rush as they go through communion, Jaime guiding both kids up, Tommen looking wide-eyed as Father Meribald blesses him and an altar boy hands him a cookie instead of the bread and wine the others are getting. Myrcella looks jealously at the cookie as they return to their seats. 

Even Brienne is smiling as the entire church holds small candles for the final hymn, Silent Night sounding strong in the church and a golden glow on everyone’s faces. Tyrion manages to be serious for once as well and as Jaime looks over at his brother and his niece and nephew, cousin Joy on the other side, the smell of Brienen’s perfume lingering in his nose, he can’t help feeling like a real family for once. 

Not a perfect family, but one that for once is doing the things you’re meant to do on a holiday. 

It all ends, of course, as the candles go out and Father Meribald raises his arms at the back of the church to proclaim “Let us go forth into the world rejoicing in the power of the holy spirit and the word of God made flesh for all mankind. Let us remember the innocence of the Christ Child and carry the spirit of Christmas with us through the year.” 

Tywin does not carry the spirit of Christmas, not even for a few moments, growling at Jaime as everyone is filing out. Jaime tries not to hear him, collecting coats and trying to herd Myrcella and Tommen to the car. He’d hoped to stay for the reception hour after, which features a birthday cake for Jesus, but he’s not going to risk Tywin cornering any of them. 

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Tyrion says, as he scrambles into the passenger seat of Jaime’s SUV.

“You said fuck,” Myrcella says from the backseat. “If Uncle Tyrion can say fuck, I should be able to say fuck.”

Jaime sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My childhood church gave out cookies to kids too young for communion. It was supposed to get us ready for communion, but it really made us not want to take it at all because we wanted cookies instead. They were really good cookies.


	51. Santa Claus Is Coming To Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Day in Westeros.

Jaime hasn't been this excited for Christmas in a long time. Possibly ever, considering he barely remembers the years before his mother died and the family Christmases after hadn't been much fun. Not even for the children. 

As an adult, Jaime basically stopped celebrating beyond the obligatory family dinner, and it was fine enough, but some part of him always felt a little bit pathetic. Not as pathetic as he would have felt setting up a tree and decorations in his lonely apartment, but still.

Now, though, Jaime has reasons to celebrate, and he's going to take them.

If not for himself, for his niece and nephew, whose holidays have been as miserable as Jaime's so far. 

The apartment has been decorated to the hilt, thanks to Jaime’s assistant and the decorator he’d hired. There are piles of presents under the tree, and two overly stuffed stockings hanging from the mantle. (Two more are at the foot of Tommen and Myrcella's beds, Jaime might have gone a little overboard when asking Peck to pick up gifts.) 

It's far grander than anything Jaime’s father ever did, though Jaime is still frustrated by the lack of homeliness that seems present in other people's houses this time of year. He doesn't know what he's missing, but something seems just slightly off. Even though Jaime has done everything he can think of to get the Christmas spirit going.

The kids haven't noticed, though, just like they didn't notice the mild panic after Jaime got home from church and realized most restaurants are closed on Christmas Eve. Pentoshi takeout saved the day, and afterwards they'd eaten Christmas cookies and drank glasses of (non-alcoholic) eggnog. Myrcella had begged to watch _Miracle on 34th Street_ and Jaime had read them both _The Night Before Christmas_ before Tommen put out a glass of milk and cookies for Santa. 

That led to another round of panic, since Jaime had thought Tommen was past the age of believing, and a number of quick google searches on how to salvage the situation. 

Luckily neither child has paid terribly close attention to the boxes under the tree, so Jaime has been able to frantically unwrap a few and put them out with a hastily made tags written with his left hand to disguise the writing. 

The best gift of all though, is the one that should be arriving shortly. Jaime checks his watch again and casts a nervous glance at the kid's bedrooms. He's told them they're not allowed to come out until 6 o'clock, but it's getting awfully close, and he can hear rustling sounds from behind both doors. 

Jaime has threatened to drop kick Tyrion across a yard if he's late, but now he's wondering if he should have found another way to get the kittens.

Finally, Tyrion pulls up and Jaime rushes outside to take the basket from him. Five-fifty. They're cutting it very close.

"Put that in my room," he hisses, nodding at the cat carrier Tyrion is holding. The cat inside slumbers on, oblivious.

Jaime takes the basket, lifting one edge of the fabric printed with tiny gingerbread men and candy canes and peeking inside. Two little pink noses bob towards him, and he hastily recovers the basket, tucking the edge (which is even sewn nicely, he wonders where Tyrion found pre-sewn fabric) in as best he can, and adjusts the bow on the handle.

Then Jaime shoos a grumpy Tyrion back outside to wait around the block, and hastily retreats to his bedroom, closing the door just in time to hear doors open and excited squeals as the kids enter the living room. 

"Santa came!" Myrcella shouts, as Jaime opens his door. He doesn’t have to fake looking tired, because he’s spent far more of Christmas Eve awake than he’d like. 

The kittens start meowing, as if on cue, and Tommen's eyes get huge.

"Looks like it," Jaime agrees, leaning against the doorway. Myrcella is already opening up the art kit Santa left for her, running her fingers over the paints and pencils with a look of joy. 

"Why don't you open the basket?" Jaime suggests, when the meowing grows louder and Tommen doesn't move. Myrcella finally takes her brother’s hand and tugs him over and they kneel in front of the basket together for a few minutes before Tommen finally peels back the fabric.

Both kitten heads pop up immediately, sniffing excitedly at the kids. The Siamese-looking one is closest to Tommen, and he scoops it up and walks over to Jaime. 

"Kittens," Tommen breathes, looking awed. 

Jaime's throat gets tight. 

"Yeah," Jaime agrees. "Kittens."

It's been years since any of the Starks were actual children, but that doesn't mean there's not a stampede down the stairs every Christmas. Even Sam, who now spends the night crashing with Jon, gets into it and Sansa is pretty sure Sam never had this kind of free-wheeling Christmas in his childhood.

By Christmas morning, the tree is almost obscured by presents, stacked up so they cover some of the lower branches. Every year Sansa's father gripes about how it's out of control and they need to scale it back. Then it never happens.

Then again, Sansa doesn't really see how it could. Even if everyone only gave each person one gift, there are still thirteen of them. Fourteen if you include Syrio, who doesn't come until dinner. Sixteen if Jon's parents show up — thankfully they haven't this year. Sansa hasn't done the math but with all the gift-giving combinations, it's still a fuck-ton of presents. 

Still, they all dig into their stockings like they're kids again. Although now they have enough self control to wait until coffee and tea has been brewed, and they’ve all filled Christmas mugs and the smell of breakfast casserole is starting to fill the air. Sansa helps her mother with the final steps before it goes in the oven, just like she has been doing since she was a teenager, and they move easily in the kitchen, passing whisks and baking dishes.

It's nice, and Sansa’s mother smiles at her just like always, not with the half-alarmed looks she's been giving Sansa since the ugly sweater party. Even after they talked.

Stocking gifts are small, but Sansa thinks they sometimes end up being the best ones. Rickon has already started stuffing candy in his mouth as Sansa starts digging into her stocking, because of course _he_ didn’t quite wait until Sansa and Cat were done. Arya starts shooting flying Christmas elves across the room, trying to hit Jon in the face, and Sam is marveling over a credit card-sized survival tool. Jon, meanwhile, is wrapping his new blanket scarf around his neck already and Robb is crowing over his travel size Moscow Mule kit and bacon band-aids. Ned is admiring his new whisky stones and Cat is exclaiming over some sassy kitchen towels.

Sansa can't help lunging across the sofa to hug her mother when she digs past the face masks and her favorite Benefit mascara to find a necklace with a tiny rainbow flag. 

"Thanks mom," Sansa says, face buried in her mother's shoulder.

"Don't thank me, thank Santa," Cat says, but she's smiling and stroking Sansa's hair the way she used to do when Sansa was younger.

Then the doorbell rings, and it's Grandfather with Uncles Edmure and Brynden. All too soon, everyone else arrives and it's a whirlwind of wrapping paper and shouting. Even Robin gets into it, and he's still in the sullen, too cool for everything, teen years. Sansa is pleased to see Rickon pull his skull and crossbones hat on immediately, and even Aunt Lysa seems to like her hat, which Sansa bought a very expensive silk blend to make.

But the best part comes after the gifts. After Sansa has exclaimed politely over Rickon's annual set of bath products, because he really has no idea about what women like, and tried to figure out what the obscure books Sam has found are about, is when they all settle down in the den with second helpings of casserole or cheese and salami from the platter Edmure brings and put in White Christmas. The older adults get the furniture and everyone else the floor. Sansa can usually get Robb to braid her hair if she asks enough times and sometimes Arya will let Sansa paint her nails red and green. There's wrapping paper everywhere and the fire is glowing and it just feels like home.

It feels strange to celebrate with just two people at Christmas. It isn't as if Tarth Christmases were ever huge, but Brienne is used to at least a couple of other people being around. But now it’s just her and Selwyn.

Still, they rally as best they can. Once the coffee is brewing, Selwyn starts making the crepes for Swedish pancakes and frying perfect eggs, while Brienne takes charge of the bacon and breakfast potatoes liberally seasoned with garlic and paprika. While they cook, Selwyn tells Brienne the story about the first year he had this breakfast, staying at her mother's parent's house when they'd first married. He'd loved it so much he asked her grandmother to teach him to make it immediately. But he didn’t get to learn until he and Brienne’s mother had been married for five years, once Brienne’s grandmother finally decided he could be trusted with the family recipes.

Brienne misses Christmas stockings, but they gradually stopped doing them as Brienne got older, and she hasn’t figured out a good way to bring them back. Not that she knows what one would put in stockings for adults. After breakfast, gifts are a leisurely affair, as much to drag out a morning usually spent conversing with family and old friends as anything.

Brienne opens a calendar of cats stoned out of their minds on catnip and a hand-carved cat statue in Tarth marble from her uncles, a book she’s been wanting from Goodwin and a beautiful paw-shaped pendant with gemstones in it from their old neighbor, who has been something of a surrogate grandmother to Brienne. Jorgen sends a batch of preserves he canned in the summer, plus some preserved lemons from the tree in his backyard. Her father gives her a cast iron skillet that could double as a weapon, considering how heavy it is. Brienne’s already drinking her coffee out of Asha’s gift, a mug that warns people not to argue with her because she neuters for a living. 

Brienne is pleased to see that her father is thrilled with his new book. It’s not what he wants, she knows, but since she can’t give herself the happy future her father wants, it’s the best he’ll get. 

“Maybe next year, we’ll have a young man of yours here with us,” Selwyn says, because of course he’s not letting it go. 

Brienne sighs. 

If Shireen had just a little more backbone, she’d cut off all contact with her family. But she doesn’t, so she concedes to spending Christmas together. Or as together as one can be with divorced parents who still work together but speak no more than necessary for business. 

So Shireen wakes up at the crack of dawn and pulls out the modest grey dress she keeps at the back of her closet. High neck and full, ankle length skirt with sleeves that billow out to cinch at the wrists. She pulls her hair back in a severe braid that exposes her scars to everyone, because she’s too old to wear her hair loose, according to her mother’s standards. Then Shireen meets Selyse at the church and sits next to her mother in an uncomfortable pew, wood digging into her legs as Preacher Sparrow thunders on about sin and hellfire and the world of pain awaiting everyone who doesn’t follow the true way of God. 

Shireen isn’t sure if he’s really staring at her through all of this, but she wouldn’t put it past him. 

It’s miserable and cold and Christmas itself only gets a brief mention before Sparrow is off onto the eternal fires of hell again.

Shireen slips out after the service, skipping the Bible study and the pitying looks from congregants who wonder what she did to deserve her scars and lament her mother’s misfortune to have such a sinful child who has turned away from the church.

Then Shireen makes her way home to change before heading out to Wildling’s, the one place always open on Christmas because Mance believes everyone should have a place to go, and meets her father.

Stannis sits stiffly at a table, even though there’s plenty of comfortable chairs available. He drinks his one cup of black coffee and inquires politely after Shireen’s job, how much she has in savings, has she been flossing, if she has started thinking about her taxes yet, and slides her a small wrapped gift. Shireen gives him the same thing she does every year, a pound of the good coffee she knows he likes but thinks is too frivolous to buy for himself. Stannis makes a pleased noise when he opens it, like it’s somehow still remarkable after five years of receiving the same gift.

Shireen unwraps her box and finds a set of tiny screws in a black case.

“For fixing things like your computer,” Stannis says. “I know everyone just throws them out now if they break, but it’s very wasteful.”

Shireen has never fixed a computer in her life, but she smiles and says thank you. She’ll tuck the screws away in her toolbox (Christmas four years ago), with all her other tools (two years ago) and store it next to the small saw (last year) and the rubber mallet (six years ago and surprisingly useful). 

Shireen asks after his dental practice, carefully avoiding any mention of her mother or Melisandre, and how he’s been eating. Stannis has read yet another research paper about longevity. It suggests people who eat fewer calories live longer, so now he’s carefully monitoring what he eats to get as low as he can while maintaining his weight. Shireen nods politely. It’s a new thing every year. Last year had been a square of dark chocolate every day, which honestly seems like a much more pleasant habit. Shireen might have taken that one up herself. 

Then Stannis is gone and Shireen can finally relax, collapsing back in a chair and glancing around. There’s only a few older folks here so far, the ones whose families have moved away and don’t visit, but she knows it will fill up over time with more Christmas orphans that have nowhere to go.

As far as Asha’s concerned, Christmas and all its spectacle can fuck right off, though she never says no to the Stark’s annual feast. She’s not stupid. But even when Hanukkah falls on the same nights Asha’s never really cared about the December madness.

She’s not that religious, to start, not when her mother died when she was so young and all the things they did as a family disappeared. No more temple services or Shabbos dinners. The Greyjoy side are atheists way back, with the occasional Norse revivalist, racism optional. But even if she’s not much for religious practice in general, Asha knows that Hanukkah isn’t even a major holiday. She mostly celebrated for Theon when they were younger, because she’s glad the Starks practically adopted him but Asha isn’t about to let her brother forget their family, forget their mother’s family and get swallowed up by doing what everyone else does.

Asha didn’t spend hours listening to her grandmother talking about everyone that’s been lost and showing the tattoo on her arm to let Theon forget who he is and what it means. 

But Val celebrates Christmas, at least somewhat, though she also follows some pagan holidays like the solstices. Val dragged Asha out at the crack of dawn on the winter solstice, having stayed awake all night, to watch the sunrise in some pagan-ish ritual. Asha skipped the staying awake all night part, but she agreed to join Val in the morning.

The celebration of life and light returning was actually a lot of fun, considering it basically amounted to fucking each other senseless for hours. 

Showing up on Christmas Eve in bows (Asha ultimately couldn’t choose and so wrapped both tits and cunt in large ribbons) definitely went over well. And Val has insisted on lighting Asha’s menorah, the one her mother had owned, and making latkes as well. Val even wants to have Theon over one night of Hanukkah though Asha isn’t really sure how to explain the hot mess that is her brother to her girlfriend. 

Still, it isn’t bad to wake up sometime close to noon on Christmas, nowhere to be until evening, because they crawled back into bed after the morning chores and stayed there, just sleeping. Val even sleeps elegantly, curled up slightly on her side, hands tucked under her pillow. It makes Asha feel a suspiciously emotional ache in her heart.

Then when they get up Val makes cinnamon rolls and the wood stove is crackling away and maybe Asha can concede that it may not be _her_ holiday but Christmas doesn’t have to be so bad.

Daenerys finds herself at a bit of a loss when it comes to Christmas in Westeros. She hadn’t felt like going back to see her family across the Narrow Sea but now she’s adrift. She’s given the animals all their Christmas treats (mice or vegetables, as appropriate) and opened the box of gifts from her mother and brother, which is fine. Rhaegar’s even managed to send a gift this year, though Dany isn’t sure where he thinks she’s going to wear a diamond and ruby necklace that must have cost several thousand dollars. 

There’s even a card from Rhaenys. Daenerys wishes she knew her niece and nephew better, though she understands why Elia wants nothing to do with the family whatsoever. And it’s always seemed odd that they’re older than she is. Still, it feels sad to not know any of her extended family, though she supposes she could look up Jon Snow now that she’s here in Westeros. Certainly Aegon is probably never going to get over what Rhaegar did to his mother, never mind that Daenerys was still a baby at the time. 

Daenerys is so busy musing as she walks the quiet streets, twinkling with lights but devoid of people and all the shops with their doors locked and windows shuttered, that she almost misses the light coming from Wildling’s. 

To her surprise, there’s a small crowd gathered. She recognizes a few of the people from her store, but she’s most pleased to see Brienne again. Dany always means to make time to talk more with both Brienne and Asha, but she’s been so busy since their initial meeting to discuss stock for Dragon’s Egg that she hasn't been able to.

Brienne is sitting with a tall man who must be her father, they have the same blue eyes, even if Selwyn is dark (or was, he’s more grey now) where Brienne is almost as blond as Dany herself, and a woman with dark curls and burn scars on her face.

Something warm settles in Dany’s stomach when she joins them and Selwyn immediately introduces himself and starts asking the kind of concerned questions Dany imagines a father might ask. From Brienne’s eye roll, it isn’t unusual for the man.

“Well, my cobra is probably the most unusual,” Dany is saying to Selwyn, when Shireen whips her head around.

“I’m sorry, your WHAT?” 

Shireen, it turns out, teaches elementary school and Dany is absolutely delighted to share all the information she has about her babies. They exchange cards and Shireen promises to get in touch to arrange a demonstration or field trip.

Selwyn, meanwhile, is fretting about Dany’s safety around a cobra and insisting she make sure to the clinic knows to have anti-venom on hand. Which, shamefully, is something Dany hasn’t thought of before. 

“So Brienne,” Dany finally says, because she really can’t resist. “What’s with the photo of you from the paper?”

Brienne turns a shade of red Dany didn’t know humans were capable of, and she almost feels bad for asking. 

“You never know,” Shireen says, after Brienne has stumbled through an explanation and denial that Addam could possibly be interested. Which is not at all what Dany sees in the photo. As far as she can tell, Addam looks _very_ interested. “I didn’t think guys would look twice at me and well …”

Shireen gestures at herself in a way that means something, though Dany isn’t sure what.

“I’m not exactly sexy,” Shireen says. “But I met Rickon and …”

Then it’s Shireen’s turning a spectacular shade of scarlet. 

Selwyn shakes his head. 

“You’re all beautiful, kind, smart young women,” he tells them. “Any man or woman would be lucky to have any of you, and you deserve exactly what you want.”

By the time Brienne and her father have to leave, Dany is left with a feeling of warmth and contentment that makes it feel a lot more like Christmas. 

As terribly over-decorated and eye-bleedingly festive as Jaime’s apartment is, Tyrion would much rather spend the entire day there than make the trip to their father’s for the obligatory family dinner.

Casterly Rock. Who the fuck names their house anyway?

At least at Jaime’s, the kids were tearing into their presents and Tommen had even managed to say a few words to each of his uncles. Tyrion is not too proud to say he choked up a little at that. The kittens also had a delightful time romping about in the mess of paper and pouncing on every bow they could. Brenna, as far as Tyrion can tell, spent the entire day sleeping on Jaime’s bed. 

Tyrion isn’t planning to get a pet anytime soon, but he is starting to see why some people see the appeal. 

The table at Casterly is set with the finest china and silver, crystal glasses at every plate. Tommen and Myrcella are uncomfortable in a suit and formal dress. Tywin had sighed and rolled his eyes at Jaime’s Christmas tie, which makes Tyrion consider getting himself one for next year, and then sighed even louder when Tommen hesitantly whispered to his grandfather about his gift of kittens. 

Tommen’s face falls and he goes silent again. Tyrion is going to kill Tywin himself if this sets Tommen back into another period of not talking. From the look on Jaime’s face, he feels the same way. 

Thankfully Aunt Genna arrives to shepherd the kids away, clutching Tommen to her ample bosom in a maternal sort of way.

“Actually,” Tyrion says over slices of prime rib, when Tywin asks about the bookstore with a tone of disdain. “We’re profitable this year. And we got a lot of new business from the holiday party, so there’s no reason it shouldn’t continue.”

Tywin looks like he’s bitten into something sour. 

“That was a lovely party,” Aunt Genna says. “I didn’t think it would work but it was so festive and nice to see all the businesses get involved.”

“I found a lot of new stores,” Joy says. “Downtown is really growing.”

“It used to be like that,” Uncle Kevan starts, and Tyrion tunes him out as he goes on long, rambling tangent about the glory days of Westeros, when it was right on a convenient railway stop. When more people still used trains.

“A lot of useless expense on frivolity,” Tywin grumbles.

Uncle Devan clears his throat. “Actually, we received quite a few calls from clients, letting us know how pleased they were to see us taking part.”

Tywin still looks unimpressed. “We’re the only bank in town, where would they go?’

“Online banking is really getting big,” Lancel says earnestly. “A lot of younger people are using it. No overhead on buildings lets them charge lower fees and give higher interest.”

“And when something goes wrong, then what? Where do people go? Who do they talk to?” Tywin demands. Lancel shrugs.

“It doesn’t hurt to be well-liked in the community,” Aunt Genna says. “Well worth the cost of a little eggnog.”

The conversation doesn’t improve much as dinner drags on. Tywin finds reasons to criticize everyone, from Jaime not living up to Tywin’s standards at work to Myrcella’s fraternizing with older boys and Tommen’s lack of manliness.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Jaime says bitterly as they’re leaving. Myrcella doesn’t even call him out on it. “Business and interest rates, how festive.” 

“At least we had this morning,” Tyrion says. Which had been shockingly fun, once he’d returned to Jaime’s to be let in, acting as if it were the first time. While the children had gotten enough toys to stock a small store, Tyrion was especially pleased to see Tommen curling up with a sleeping kitten and a stack of the books Tyrion picked out for him. 

Now would be the time Jaime and Tyrion usually head to Littlefingers, where Sandor would be sure to be opening the bar. But Jaime has the kids to shepherd into his SUV and go home for whatever it is normal(ish) families do at night. Or whatever Jaime thinks they do, based on years of sitcoms. Tyrion feels oddly bereft as he watches the car disappear.

Well, there’s nothing saying he can’t go to Littlefinger’s alone. Maybe Ros will be free again. That would be a merry Christmas indeed.

If Brienne thought Sansa was a hurricane, the girl has nothing on her family. Brienne has never seen so many people crammed into one house. Her father, of course, immediately takes to it, greeting Catelyn with an embrace and doing the manly hug and shoulder slap routine with Ned and Sansa’s uncles as Sansa goes through a dizzying round of introductions.

“We brought cannoli,” Brienne says, somewhat weakly, holding the tray out for Sansa’s mother to take. 

Cat beams and directs Brienne to toss her coat in the downstairs guest room, where there’s a towering pile. 

Brienne is very grateful for the mug of mulled wine someone passes her. She’s not sure who and at this point, she doesn’t really care.

“First year?” A chubby man with a short beard emerges next to Brienne. She recognizes him from the strange picnic at the bakery. “It’s a lot.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many people in one house before,” Brienne tells him

The man, who introduces himself as Samwell Tarly, tells Brienne he’s been celebrating with the Starks for years, but admits it takes some getting used to.

“My family are a bag of dicks,” Sam says cheerfully. “Well, my sister’s all right, and my mother might be if she didn’t listen to my father, but she does so there you are. I’d stuck it out on my own for a while but Jon wouldn’t hear of it once we became partners.” 

“They’re great for adopting us strays.” Asha drapes herself over Brienne’s shoulder, already full of Christmas cheer. In the form of rum, if the glass she has in her hand is any indication. “Even if we don’t celebrate.”

“And we stopped Robb from putting up too much mistletoe.” Sansa’s younger sister looks angry about the very idea of mistletoe. Brienne approves.

“It didn’t work anyway.” The redheaded man looks morose. Brienne assumes he must be Robb. 

“You,” Asha says, words slurring slightly as she points at Robb. “Need to do less kissing and more thinking.” She turns on Brienne next, wagging a finger in her face. “And you need to do less thinking and more kissing.” 

“Hear hear!” Sansa cheers. “And I have some ideas on who.”

“Kissing is stupid,” her sister says. 

“Arya!” Sansa looks positively offended. “What about Gendry?”

Arya looks like she wants to murder someone. Brienne really does like her. “Gendry is a stupid boy. Boys are stupid. And so are girls.” The last part is almost an afterthought, clearly directed at Sansa and Asha.

“You’ll never escape now,” Theon says, looking at Brienne with something like pity. Maybe. It’s hard to tell with Theon. “Once Sansa starts matchmaking for you, you’re stuck for life.”

Brienne does manage to escape, if only for a few moments. Cat shoos her out of the kitchen when she tries to help, and her father is busy drinking scotch in the backyard with the uncles, and smoking cigars around the side of the house where they aren’t visible. 

At least Brienne only gets stuck under the remaining mistletoe once, with Sansa’s grandfather, who gives her a very dignified kiss on the cheek and tells her to keep an eye out for ruffians by the vet’s office.

At dinner, at least, Brienne is sandwiched between people who are less likely to torment her. Ned’s brother is to one side, an easy-going air about him as he loads his plate. To her other side is Sansa’s littlest brother, who does not live up to the name at all, towering even over Brienne. Rickon looks like he’s bored out of his mind, but he’s polite enough. It’s a very quiet section of the table, for which Brienne is profoundly thankful, as they pass around a stunning array of dishes, including a large ham and an actual goose. 

“Goose is all right,” Benjen says. “But I prefer elk. You ever have elk?” 

Brienne can only shake her head. Benjen takes it as reason to embark on a long-winded comparison about various game meats, culminating with an invitation for Brienne to come get her hunting license.

Sansa and Asha don’t let their obsession with Brienne’s lack of love life go after dinner, however, as the crowd spreads out with plates of pie and cookies. So many cookies. 

“You’re very likeable,” Sansa says earnestly. “Uncle Edmure, isn’t Brienne dateable?”

Edmure gives Brienne a look up and down, then shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

“Uncle Edmure will sleep with anything that’s got a pulse and identifies as female,” Arya says dryly. “No offense.”

“You’re as bad as Shireen,” Brienne says, when Sam starts going off on a tangent about thinking one isn’t dateable but then finding out maybe it’s not true to everyone.

Rickon seems to come out of his haze at that. “You know Shireen?”

“My neighbor,” Brienne says. Sansa erupts in a fit of giggles, explaining between them that Rickon is smitten with Shireen, positively oozing delight over what is clearly out-of-character behavior for the man. Rickon flushes a faint shade of pink, contrasting starkly with his red hair and overall tough demeanor. Brienne wonders if she should let him know Shireen is equally infatuated, or if that would be telling secrets.

“And she’s an elementary school teacher,” Sansa crows. Bran spits out his drink in surprise, hitting Jon, who shoves whipped cream in his face in retaliation. 

Brienne wonders if this is what having siblings is like. She’s always wondered what would have happened if her brother and sisters had survived infancy. Or even if her uncles had married and had children. As she watches the Starks, Brienne is suddenly less upset about having spent her whole life as the only child in the entire family.

Bran is snickering. “Does she wear cute little sweaters and skirts?”

“And lots of pink,” Sansa confirms. 

Brienne looks at Rickon and tries to put him with the gushing comments Shireen has been making. It’s very difficult to do, although it’s somewhat easier to imagine Rickon in regards to some of Shireen’s less than appropriate stories. Which Brienne doesn’t need to be doing, because Rickon is barely into his 20s and also Brienne is turning red. 

“I dig it,” Asha says. “Sometimes you look at pretty girls like that and you just want to be the one to mess them up.”

She and Rickon clink glasses, sharing a quiet nod. 

“Everyone doesn’t need to be partnered up,” Arya says. “Some of us are happy alone, Sansa.”

“Is that why you were locking lips with the mechanic, then?” Jon sounds like he’s been holding onto that piece of information for a while. Sansa squeals again, while Arya lets out an outraged yowl. Theon reaches a hand out to grab her sweater before she can launch herself at Jon. 

“Arya has Gendry, Rickon has Shireen, Sam has Gilly,” Sansa sighs. “All my difficult babies. Now Bran just needs to talk to Meera and Brienne needs to go out with Addam and everyone can be happy.”

Arya mimes puking. 

“I talk to Meera,” Bran mutters. 

“What about me?” Robb objects, just as Brienne says she doesn’t even know if she wants to go out with Addam.

“You need to be less stupid,” Sansa tells Robb. “Then we can talk.”

Theon starts cackling.

“And if you don’t want to date Addam,” Sansa says innocently, turning back to Brienne. “What about Jaime Lannister?”

Brienne chokes on her drink, and Asha sits bolt upright with interest. There’s no escaping this, not at all, especially when Arya grabs Brienne’s thigh with an iron grip.

“If I have to suffer, we all do,” Arya says grimly. Brienne sighs. 

“Cheer up!” Sansa chirps. “It’s Christmas. Everyone should find love at Christmas.” 

Brienne starts counting down the hours to December 26th. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the EPIC chapter, but I didn't really want to break it up. I imagine a lot of these Christmases will be different (and better) next year.
> 
> Also, not included but Brienne's cats all got new fuzzy mice and fresh catnip and some special cat-safe sardines for their Christmas presents.


	52. Life Goes Faster Than You Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cat and Ned ponder their children's futures.

“You’re an angel,” Cat says, as she takes the coffee mug from Ned’s hands. Even like this, tired, her hair a mess on the pillow, she’s still as beautiful as the day Ned married her. 

“You do too much,” Ned says. He sets his mug down and slides back into bed. “We should scale the holidays back.”

Cat sighs. “But it’s Christmas. And they love it so much.” 

“They’re adults.”

“So?” Cat frowns at her mug. “They don’t have their own families, not a single one of them. I don’t want to let the holidays just disappear.”

Ned knows there’s absolutely zero chance of his wife ceding control, even when their children do have their own families. There never seems to be a point where Cat draws a line at too many people. 

“At least have them help,” Ned tries. “You’re exhausted.”

“Sansa and Robb help.” Cat leans her head on his shoulder. “And I don’t mind being a little tired. Someone has to take care of them.”

“They’re adults,” Ned says again.

“Are they?” Cat gives a familiar sigh. “We were married with Robb by the time we were Rickon’s age. We had four of them by the time we were Robb’s. None of them are even married.” 

“It’s different now, kids are waiting longer to have families.” It isn’t as if Ned doesn’t want grandchildren either, wouldn’t love to get a chance at simply spoiling babies and children instead of disciplining and raising them. “Besides, would you want Rickon responsible for an infant?”

They both contemplate their youngest son quietly. Ned is pleased to see Rickon has improved greatly from his teen years, and working with Brynden has been great for him. But Rickon still isn’t exactly what Ned would call responsible, spending most of his non-work time doing … well, Ned isn’t sure _what_ Rickon does. Video games, maybe? Ned thinks he has one of those expensive, useless systems. Certainly Rickon doesn’t spend it thinking about career options beyond taking care of people’s lawns. 

On the other hand, the only reason Ned is on a first-name basis with the police these days is that his nephew is on the force, which is a vast improvement over the time he spent in Selmy’s office trying to find out a way to keep Rickon from going entirely off the rails into something he couldn’t come back from.

“Sansa says he’s seeing someone,” Cat says. “Or trying to. She wasn’t entirely clear, but she did say it seems mutual.”

“Oh good heavens, who is it this time?” Ned thinks to the past time Rickon’s tried to shock the family with dates. “A prostitute? Serial murderer?” 

“Sansa said she’s very nice, actually.” Cat takes another sip of coffee. “I think she’s a teacher.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about Rickon?” 

“She said so.” 

Well, teacher covers a lot of ground. Knowing Rickon, it will mean some woman who teaches pole dancing part time. Or one of those far leftist academics who studies something like the sexual habits of sadists. 

“I’m glad you’re talking to Sansa again,” Ned says, instead of dwelling on Rickon. He’ll handle that headache when he gets to it. Which hopefully will not be soon. It isn’t like any of Rickon’s women ever last.

“I still wonder if she’s sure,” Cat frets. “I mean, Margaery does seem like a perfectly lovely girl and Sansa seems very taken by her. But you know, women can have very close friendships and I don’t want her to mistake that for love. I mean, you know how close I was to Alysane when we were younger.” 

Ned has seen Cat and Alysane together, and while the idea of them behaving like Sansa and Margaery causes an uncomfortable tightening in his pajama pants, that’s really not the point right now. 

“I think she’s pretty certain.” Ned doesn’t think it’s prudent to mention the ways he’d seen Sansa and Margaery kissing at the holiday party. Or the way he’d walked out back when cleaning up and seen far more of their relationship than he ever needed to know about.

It would be uncomfortable enough if Ned were in a position to, theoretically, have an opinion on one of his son’s girlfriend’s breasts. He has no idea what to do when it’s his daughter’s girlfriend, and so he’s resolutely not thinking about it at all. Same as he’s not thinking about what Sansa was doing at the time.

There are some things a parent shouldn’t know about their children.

“Arya’s young man seemed nice.” Ned tries to change the subject. “He’s very taken with her.” 

“I don’t expect Arya to be in anything lasting,” Cat says. “You know how she is.”

“Well, she might surprise us.” Ned’s half convinced Arya just does things to be contrary. 

“I wish Robb hadn’t broken up with Roslin.” Cat moves on. “She’s such a nice girl. I hope they work it out.”

Ned would rather they didn’t, given how little he wants to link his life to Walder Frey’s in any way, but he makes a non-committal noise. 

“Ygritte is quite nice,” Ned offers. “I’ve only ever seen her working at Mance’s but she seems to be bringing Jon out of his shell.”

“She seems like trouble.” Cat sniffs. “I know you love your sister, Ned, but I don’t need Jon making the same mistakes his mother did.”

“Jon is in his 30s, not high school. Even if he has an unexpected child, it wouldn’t be the same.” Not that Ygritte strikes Ned as someone who is going to do anything she doesn’t want. She probably has things well under control. Although, again, these are not things he wants to contemplate about his children. And Jon is effectively his son. 

“I just want my children to find nice partners and get married and have families,” Cat says. “I don’t think that’s too much to ask for.”

“We can’t run their lives,” Ned reminds her. “We raised them, now we have to let them make their own choices.” 

Cat doesn’t look convinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one to make up for yesterday's epic chapter, I guess.
> 
> Cat and Ned mean well, but Cat in particular is very stuck on ideas about How Things Are Supposed To Be. And like many parents, their idea of who their children are is stuck somewhere around their pre-teen and teen years, and hasn't necessarily kept pace with how the kids have actually grown as people.


	53. Tell Me We Belong Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion is delighted when customers come back, but he's even more delighted by this particular customer.

Business is slow as Tyrion opens up after the holiday. He can’t say he’s shocked, books don’t seem to be a hugely popular post-Christmas purchase. A few folks trickle in, mostly regulars. 

Sam Tarly comes to buy a number of comics he didn’t get for the holidays. Willas Tyrell comes to ask if he can exchange some duplicate gifts for other things even without a receipt, which Tyrion agrees to do and also makes a note to offer customer wish lists next season. Lyanna Mormont drops in to exchange a steamy romance someone inexplicably thought she would like (she’s holding it between her fingers like it might bite her) for a new book on female warriors in history. Ellaria Sand comes in to return a psychiatry textbook (“I’m a working psychiatrist, I’ve already _been_ to school,” she says.) and takes the romance Lyanna rejected with great joy.

Tyrion uses the time to start thinking of displays for the new year. Resolutions feel so done, though Ellaria had given him some interesting ideas about habit formation and some books she recommends to clients. It’s certainly more interesting than diet books promising quick results and saccharine self-help tomes. 

Plus, if they’re general books on habit formation and self-work, people won’t feel as embarrassed to buy them and go to Amazon instead. Tyrion’s seen plenty of people lurking in the diet section or the area where he has books on sexuality and then seen them scurry out again when he’s occupied.

Tyrion certainly isn’t going to judge his customers, at least not to their faces, and really, in most cases he’d rather find a way to help. If someone’s problems can be fixed, Tyrion certainly understands why they’d want to do so.

Tyrion’s also thinking about a section on lunar New Year, maybe with some history and folklore books from various Asian nations. Maybe some children’s books. Westeros is tragically devoid of multiculturalism (see exhibit: one of Sparrow’s congregants lobbying for a nativity outside city hall while claiming it’s not religious because it’s factual history) and Tyrion will try to wedge it in anywhere he can. 

There’s also bookkeeping and looking at the final numbers from Christmas sales. The town party really did provide a big boost, and Tyrion hopes it has a lasting effect. If it does, he might even be able to afford to hire an employee. 

Tyrion is going through an inventory list, trying to get a sense of what types of things sold best over the holiday, when the bell on the door jingles. 

“Thank you so much,” Tysha gushes, as she walks in. “My dad loves the book.”

Tyrion is always happy when customers come back and give feedback on his ideas, but he finds this particular customer’s return especially pleasing. 

“Thank you,” Tyrion returns. “The basket and pillow were a big hit. My brother might nominate you as one of Santa’s elves.”

Tysha laughs, a light, musical sound. Tyrion tries not to stare at her with an embarrassingly sappy expression. He’s not sure what it is that he feels drawn to with Tysha, he’s certainly no stranger to beautiful women but there’s something about her … 

“And your nephew liked the kittens?” Tysha leans on the counter. It’s not seductive, no flashing of breasts or anything, just a friendly, open expression on her face. 

“They were a big hit,” Tyrion confirms. 

That’s about all Tyrion feels like saying about that subject — he’s fairly certain a discussion about his nephew’s trauma-induced mutism is not seductive — and he’s not really sure what else to say. But Tysha keeps leaning on the counter like she’s expecting something. 

“Do you know what your father liked about the book?” Tyrion asks. “If you do, I can probably recommend similar titles.”

“He didn’t say.” Tysha is still looking at him. 

“Oh.”

Tyrion wonders how you’re supposed to approach women who aren’t drunk or stripping. Or professional escorts. Not like Jaime, with criticism and oblivious jealousy, certainly, but that still leaves a lot of options. After a few moments, where Tyrion feels remarkably flustered, Tysha finally sighs. 

“I didn’t come here to talk about the book,” she says. 

“Okay?” 

“I like you,” Tysha says bluntly. “You’re funny and you like books and you’re helpful and I really like your smile. You should ask me out.”

“Okay, nice and direct,” Tyrion says. “I can work with that.” 

Then he stops.

“I really, really, don’t mean this to sound offensive, but you’re not moonlighting at Chataya’s are you?”

Tysha looks shocked. “No!” 

“I mean, I didn’t really think you were,” Tyrion says. “But usually women asking me out tends to be more of a business transaction.” 

Tysha looks like that’s something she’s going to have feelings about so Tyrion rushes to continue. 

“I would like to go out with you. But you have noticed I’m a dwarf, right?”

“Does that keep you from dating?” Now Tysha looks confused. 

“Not so much me as women who aren’t looking for profit,” Tyrion says. “Which it seems you are not.”

“No, I’m not,” Tysha says.

She stares expectantly and Tyrion realizes, suddenly, that he’s never actually asked a woman out. Unless one counts asking for prices, which normal people probably don’t. 

Good god, he’s almost as bad at this as Jaime. 

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” Tyrion asks. 

Tysha grins. “Yes, I would.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points for identifying the title and artist of the chapter heading, without google. *hums* 
> 
> Apologies for the chapter going up a bit late today. I woke up around 5 am with a migraine, threw down a handful of advil, texted my boss, and went back to sleep for while. And now feel about as weak and unsteady as a newborn kitten. But less cute.


	54. Don't Go Too Fast, Don't Go To Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going on a date with Rickon is nothing like other dates Shireen has been on.

Shireen changes clothes four times and shoes five times before she makes herself stop fussing and tries to do something to distract herself before Rickon arrives.

It’s not that Shireen hasn’t been on dates before. Not many, but she has been on dates. 

It’s just that those dates can best be described as tepid. They’ve all been perfectly nice men, but none of them made Shireen feel a tiny fraction of what Rickon makes her feel. She’s tried her best, because Shireen has always figured that what she likes and who she is are fundamentally incompatible. Mild-mannered elementary school teachers who wear pastel dresses and own multiple teapots do not get pinned against walls by dangerous-looking, muscled, leather-wearing men.

Except apparently sometimes they do, and Shireen isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do when it comes to going out with Rickon. Especially when she only has to be in his presence for a few minutes to start forgetting every boundary she thought she had for herself.

Willingly and enthusiastically forgetting them, but still.

Shireen had almost taken Missy up on her suggestion to go shopping and get something slinky and sexy to wear. But Shireen knows she’d only feel terribly uncomfortable and besides, she doesn’t want Rickon to want to go out with some fake version of herself. Either he wants to go out with her, fluffy cardigans and pink apartment and all, or he doesn’t.

Still, Shireen tenses when she buzzes Rickon into the building and he looks her up and down. The dress has a lower neck than she’s used to wearing, and Shireen has skipped her usual colored tights in favor of bare legs (something she’ll probably regret when she steps outside) but she’s well aware that it’s still a conservative outfit by most normal people’s standards. 

Rickon doesn’t seem too visibly disappointed, though, just smiles at her in a way that makes Shireen’s stomach turn over as she gets her coat. He stays at a bit of a distance which Shireen can’t help feel is a good idea, given their last few interactions. Although it also makes her worry about whether he really wants to go out on a date.

Shireen has never felt so compelled to touch someone in her entire life, even though she knows she wants to get to know him first. 

They go to Tarly’s and get a lot of confused looks. Shireen isn’t sure if that’s because they’re together or because Rickon is still wearing a tee shirt and battered leather jacket. It’s a plain black tee shirt, though, and his jeans are clean and Shireen is pretty sure that constitutes his effort at dressing up.

Considering the way it shows off Rickon’s biceps, Shireen doesn’t mind.

Talking to Rickon turns out to be easy this time, even though Shireen isn’t drunk. Or maybe because she’s not drunk. That’s not typical of Shireen’s dates either, because she’s come to the realization that she has virtually no hobbies in common with most of the men she knows. She likes sewing and knitting and reading and romantic movies and sure, she’s plenty open to other things but there’s no denying her hobbies are very girly.

Shireen doesn’t know when _reading_ became viewed as girly but apparently it is.

Rickon, not surprisingly, doesn’t really do any of those things but he at least asks questions and listens to Shireen’s answers. And even asks follow up questions. Maybe it’s because of his sister, he must have heard similar things before. 

And Rickon gets so shockingly animated when he talks about the motorcycle he’s rebuilding or his plans for a backpacking trip to one of the areas of The Gift that’s extremely wild that Shireen finds it easy to care about what he’s saying. Even though she knows nothing about motorcycles or backpacking and probably asks the dumbest questions in existence. 

It doesn’t even matter that the waitress is giving them confused and pitying looks — Shireen isn’t sure if the pity is for her face or for Rickon’s being stuck with her — but Shireen still feels a familiar flush of embarrassment when Tyene Sand and her date slink in and are seated nearby.

Never mind that it’s freezing outside, Tyene is wearing a skimpy slip dress that does nothing to disguise the fact that she’s not wearing a bra (and judging by lack of lines, she’s not wearing panties either) and towering heels. Every man and some of the women turn to look when Tyene walks in and Shireen wonders, sometimes, what it would be like to make people look at you because they want you, not because they’re wondering what’s wrong with you.

Rickon seems to notice her change in mood because he frowns across the table. 

“Why don’t I remember you from school?” Rickon asks. “I definitely should remember you.”

“You’re younger than I am,” Shireen points out, before stopping to wonder if that will bother him. 

“Not that much younger,” Rickon says. 

Shireen shrugs. “I was homeschooled for a while. My mom was worried about Satan’s influence. Then I was in the hospital a few times. I didn’t really get to have many friends.”

Because that doesn’t sound pathetic at all. 

“For your face,” Rickon says. He doesn’t have any inflection to his tone, just stating a fact. Shireen supposes it makes sense. They can’t ignore her scars forever.

“Yeah,” she says. “First the incident and then some reconstructive surgeries. They did the best they could.”

“That must have been hard,” Rickon says. Shireen could kiss him again, right there, because he doesn’t assume she meant to say accident or point out how poorly the reconstructive surgery went.

Actually, it didn’t go poorly. Shireen could look like Sandor Clegane and she doesn’t. That doesn’t mean she looks normal though. She ducks her head down and to the side on reflex as she answers, swing her hair forward to hide that side of her face.

Tyene laughs loudly a few tables over, a husky, sultry sort of laugh. Shireen sighs. The waitress asks if they want dessert. Rickon looks at Shireen and says no.

At least they had some fun, Shireen figures, as Rickon drives back to her place. She’ll always have a good story or two to tell. 

Rickon walks her to the door and steps back, still an arms length or so away. 

“So,” he says. “Where did I fuck up?”

Shireen blinks. “You didn’t.”

“Yeah, that’s why you looked so disappointed at dinner.” Rickon sounds both pissed off and resigned, somehow. “Sorry, I’m not some hidden prince.”

“I — what?” Shireen feels like she’s not following this conversation very well. “I’m not disappointed, you’re disappointed. Sorry I’m not Tyene Sand.” 

“What the fuck does Tyene Sand have to do with anything?” Now Rickon sounds confused. “I’m not disappointed.” 

“Then why were you in a hurry to leave?” Shireen challenges.

“Because you’re disappointed!” 

“But I’m not!” Shireen takes a deep breath. “I know I’m not sexy like Tyene and I’m sure I’m nothing like any of the girls you’ve dated before —”

“I haven’t dated any girls before,” Rickon says. “And you look amazing tonight.”

“Fine, I don’t look like any of the girls you’ve fucked before.” Shireen knows she sounds pissed off now, and she also knows she has no real justification to be. “And you don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying,” Rickon says. He’s still standing almost across the hallway. 

“You’re standing so far away I might as well be contagious,” Shireen snaps. “You knew I had a scar, you know what I look like, why even bother when I’m clearly not cool enough for —”

“I’m standing so far away because I don’t trust myself if I touch you!” Rickon almost shouts. Shireen jumps a little and looks down the hall, but nobody is opening their door to see what’s going on. 

“I’m standing so far away,” Rickon says, this time at a more normal volume, “Because you’re the kind of girl who’s supposed to be with a guy who knows how to take you out and be polite and shit and not just grope you in bars. And you’re standing over there in that dress with your _legs_ and your fucking collarbones and I’m _trying_ to be respectful.”

“Since when are you respectful?” Shireen gives Rickon a look that she hopes reminds him of exactly how not respectful he’s been. 

“Since you said you wanted me to be!” 

Suddenly, Shireen feels completely stupid. “Well now I’m the one who fucked up.”

Rickon’s eyes flutter shut for a second. “Okay, first of all I’m really going to need you to stop saying fuck. Since when do you curse anyway?”

“Apparently you inspire me,” Shireen says dryly. 

Rickon’s eyes are darker when he opens them. “Careful, sweetheart, or you’re going to start making me think of what other things I could inspire in you.”

Which of course only makes Shireen think of all the out of character things Rickon has _already_ inspired her to do and how many more she probably hasn’t even considered yet and her breath hitches. 

Rickon takes a step closer. 

“I really need you to stop looking at me like that.” His voice is almost pleading and Shireen’s stomach flips again at the idea that she’s somehow making him sound that way. 

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Shireen says. Rickon takes another step closer. 

“You are,” he says. “It’s very, very distracting when we’re trying to have an argument.”

“Were we arguing?”

“It was a stupid argument,” Rickon says, finally closing the distance between them.

Suddenly, Shireen is reminded of exactly how large Rickon is, especially next to her, how tall and broad and smelling of leather and she can’t stop the whimper that escapes her throat even though it’s horribly embarrassing. 

“Shireen,” Rickon says. The only thing better than the way his voice breaks a little on her name is the fact that as soon as he’s doing saying it his lips are on hers. Shireen wonders what on earth they were arguing about, because this is just as amazing as the last time Rickon kissed her and she feels like she’s burning up from the inside out.. 

Shireen tries to say something when they have to stop kissing to breathe, but what leaves her lips is in no way recognizable as words, because Rickon is hoisting her up again, pinning her between the door and his body while Shireen tries to wrap a leg around him as best she can in her dress. It has the unfortunate, or maybe fortunate, side effect of making her skirt ride up and Rickon slides his hand along her thigh. 

“I’ve wanted to touch you all night,” Rickon says, close enough that she feels his breath on her ear and it sends a full body shudder through her. “But I’m trying not to push you.” 

Shireen still can’t manage to form any sort of coherent response, so she just slides her hand into Rickon’s hair and pulls him back to where she can kiss him again. Her other hand keeps wandering from his shoulder to stroke down his bicep and back again while Rickon keeps kissing her like he’s never going to stop.

Which is fine, because Shireen never wants him to stop, especially when he shifts them and all of a sudden his thigh is between her legs, helping hold her up and providing delicious friction that makes Shireen moan out loud. Rickon’s answering groan only encourages the dazed, heated feeling rushing through her as she grinds her hips down. 

There’s a distant part of Shireen’s mind that thinks she’s going to be embarrassed about this, and that she’s moving too fast. But it’s losing a lot of ground to the part of Shireen that is burning up with pleasure and wanting more. 

Shireen doesn’t know how long they stay like that, kissing and rubbing and making soft gasps and moans into each other’s mouths against her door, and she doesn’t know how far she’d have let it go if she wasn’t startled by a door opening and a stifled yelp from down the hall. 

Rickon tightens his grip on her briefly, but then sees the way she’s staring past him and sets Shireen down gently.

Brienne is standing just outside her door, face practically glowing red, as she stares at them and then jerks her gaze away. Shireen doesn’t even want to consider what she looks like right now, her skirt shoved up and her hair probably wrecked. 

“Sorry,” Brienne mumbles, and then darts back inside her apartment.

Rickon takes a step back. “That wasn’t taking it slow, was it?”

“Not really.” Shireen leans back against the door. 

“I’d like to do this again,” Rickon says. “I mean. The date, not the … well, the other stuff too but … if you want to, I mean.” 

“I would,” Shireen manages to get out. Rickon takes another step back when she smiles at him.

“I really need to leave,” Rickon says. “But I’ll call you.” 

Shireen can’t wait until he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had plans to be productive this weekend, and then I had what was basically a three day nap punctuated with brief periods of alertness. Whee!


	55. We Can Always Party On Our Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha and Sansa have some advice for Brienne.

“If you don’t call him, I’m going to do it for you.” 

Brienne snatches her phone back from Asha. “Don’t you dare.”

“You _have_ been really tense today,” Sansa says. “Getting out and having fun might do you some good.”

Brienne glares at both of them from where she’s making another pass at budget numbers while Asha reviews adoption applications and Sansa (theoretically) mans the front desk. 

“So I’ll stop by Evenfall’s,” Brienne says, because she’s learning that these two are even harder to placate when they combine their efforts.

Why did Brienne ever think making friends was such a good idea?

“Talking to your father is not going out and having fun,” Sansa says. 

“Seriously, though, what’s got your panties back in a twist?” Asha shoves a handful of potato chips in her mouth. “I thought you were going to call Addam.”

“I said I’d think about calling Addam,” Brienne says. “I thought about it. And I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Because I don’t.” 

“But why?” Sansa starts ticking things off on her fingers. “He’s cute. He’s a gender you’re attracted to. He’s nice. He’s gainfully employed. He seems like he’s probably not boring. And he likes you. So what isn’t a good idea?”

“It’s not about him, it’s about me.” Brienne realizes as soon as it’s halfway out that she’s picked the wrong thing to say. 

“Don’t you dare say you’re unattractive,” Asha warns. “Aside from it not being true, the man kissed you and gave you his number, he obviously agrees with me and not you.”

“It isn’t that,” Brienne says. “It’s just. I’m not cut out for dating.”

Both women give her thoroughly unimpressed looks.

“How would you know if you don’t date?” Asha says. “Have you ever been on a date?” 

Brienne looks sideways at Sansa, and then sighs. “No,” she admits. Not a real one anyway.

“So you could be great at dating,” Sansa says. “The best date-er ever.” 

“Date-er?” Asha asks. Sansa shrugs.

“I won’t be,” Brienne says. “I can’t — I’m not going to live up to his expectations.” 

“You don’t even know what his expectations are,” Asha argues. “I can practically hear your brain over-working.”

“I know he’s… an adult,” Brienne finally settles on. 

“Yes, if he were a child, we’d be staging an intervention,”Sansa says. She’s a lot more sarcastic since she’s started dating Margaery. Or maybe it’s from being around Asha so much.

“Adult is a wide and varied category,” Asha says. “Expectations are not standard. Some women want to get roses on the first date. Val wanted a halibut.”

“A _halibut_?” Sansa asks, then waves it away. “We’ll discuss that later. The point is, the only way to know is to talk to him. On the phone. At dinner. Whatever.” 

“Some expectations seem to be,” Brienne says, carefully. “Standard. And I am not … I can’t …”

Sansa raises her eyebrows.

“Sex,” Brienne finally blurts out. “I’m not going to —I know ugly girls are supposed to be desperate and grateful but I’m not sleeping with someone on the first date.”

“You aren’t ugly,” Asha and Sansa say, in unison this time. Brienne is starting to think they’re rehearsing. 

“And if you don’t want to have sex with him, then don’t. If he’s a dick about it, kick him in the nuts,” Asha says.

“Lots of people don’t have sex on the first date,” Sansa says. 

“Yeah,” Asha agrees. “Some people have it before.”

Sansa throws an eraser at her. “Margaery and I already knew each other, and anyway, that’s not the point. Lots of people wait.” 

“Do they?” Brienne looks at them. “Anymore?”

“Yes,” Asha says. “Maybe not either of us, but yes. Where is this coming from?”

Brienne buries her head in her arms, abandoning any pretense of working on the budget. It wasn’t going much better than this conversation, anyway. 

“We’re not going to drop it,” Sansa says. “Margaery has her obligatory dinner with her grandmother tonight, I have lots of time.” 

“Val’s getting drinks with the Mormonts to bitch about the new construction project by The Gift,” Asha adds. “I’m free all night.”

Brienne groans. 

Asha starts humming the theme song from Jeopardy.

“I saw Shireen and Rickon,” Brienne finally says. “In the hallway after their date.”

“Having sex?” Asha asks. 

“Not quite,” Brienne says. She considers it for a minute. “I don’t think.”

“Well, good for them,” Asha says. “Still doesn’t mean you have to.”

“But Shireen is —” Brienne waves her hands. “She’s so quiet and polite and I don’t think she dates much either and if even she’s going to — I mean —”

“Okay, first of all, Shireen and Rickon have some weird epic chemistry that is not representative of anything,” Sansa says. “Also, Rickon is a 22-year-old man with the impulse control of a gnat. Addam is an actual grown up who presumably knows how to exercise self-restraint.” 

“Twenty-two year old men are still walking boners,” Asha agrees. 

“And even then, they still know how to accept no. Even Rickon,” Sansa says. “He would never force Shireen to do anything she didn’t want to.”

“I didn’t mean to imply he would,” Brienne says hastily. “But if even someone like Shireen is going to be so … willing to do things so fast maybe I’m just too … maybe I’m just past the age where it’s okay to take it slow.” 

“Bullshit,” Sansa says. “Arya would never sleep with someone on the first date, and she’s still dating Gendry. If Margaery had wanted to wait, I’d have waited as long as she wanted.” 

“And you don’t know they slept together,” Asha points out. “They could have stopped at making out.”

“Even that …” Brienne stares at the table instead of her friends. “I don’t know what I’m doing and nobody is going to put up with me having to learn, not at my age.” 

“It’s not rocket science,” Asha says. “It’s not like you can fuck it up, unless you punch them or something.” 

Brienne groans a little. “I didn’t even know what to do when he kissed me!”

“And yet he still gave you his number,” Sansa says. “And the only way to learn anything is practice.” 

“And while I’m sure either of us would be perfectly happy to volunteer,” Asha says. “We know you don’t bat for our team. So why not take a chance with the nice, so far unobjectionable man who seems like he would be very interested in the job?”

“And when he laughs at me?” Brienne asks.

“We knife him and I drop the body off my cousin’s fishing boat,” Asha says. 

“Or bury him in The Gift,” Sansa adds. “Uncle Benjen would help.”

Brienne wonders if all friendships involve so many threats of violence or if she just has a particularly blood-thirsty social circle.

“Call him,” Asha says again. “Or I’m going to do it for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I exist! It turns out a massive pandemic and primary season leaves my brain so dead I come home and stare blankly off into space until bed. GOOD TIMES.
> 
> I also intended to post this in the morning, but then woke up to half a dozen slack messages and a presidential press conference happening so yeah, I will endeavor to update this regularly again and keep going but it might be sporadic. But gonna try, because more fic is absolutely what we need in this time of quarantine.


	56. Can We Be A Family?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has enough on his hands trying to date Ygritte. He does not need more complications.

Jon picks at his pancakes while Ygritte rambles on about town gossip. Something about elementary school teachers being secretly freaky, which Jon thinks is probably overblown. Ygritte has a tendency to think everyone is secretly freaky.

Jon is not letting that line of logic talk him into using his handcuffs in bed. 

At least they’re trying to spend time together outside of a bedroom. Jon very much enjoys the time they spend inside a bedroom but he feels guilty if that’s all they do. He doesn’t want to just use Ygritte for sex. Ygritte thinks it’s hilarious. 

So now they’re at Fat Walda’s, eating breakfast and trying to have a conversation. Jon is pouring more maple syrup on his plate when the blonde outside catches his eye and his fork clatters to the floor.

Ygritte stops talking.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says.

Jon only nods.

Ygritte twists around to see where Jon is looking and frowns. 

“Are you staring at the blonde with the perky tits? What, you think she’s hotter than me?”

“No!” Jon says, still craning his neck to look out the window. 

“What the fuck?” Ygritte lobs a piece of her home fries at him. “You piece of fucking shit.”

“What?” Jon blocks the next piece of potato. “I’m not staring at other women!”

“Oh no?” Ygritte makes a show of twisting around again, looking through the window to the sidewalk, which is empty save for the platinum blonde in a violet coat. “So you’ve developed a fascination with lamp posts?”

Jon doesn’t get a chance to respond.

“Look, you’re the one who gets all high and mighty about dating and not feeling like a dirty whore,” Ygritte rants. People in nearby booths are starting to turn towards their table. “But if you’re done with me, Jon Snow, you tell me, you don’t —”

“I’m not done with you!” Jon pulls Ygritte’s plate closer to him, because she looks like she’s about to start throwing things again. 

“Oh, then what are you doing?” 

“I think that’s my aunt!” Jon hisses. He still keeps a hold on the plate.

Ygritte opens and closes her mouth a few times, then twists back around to look at the window.

“Just so we’re clear, you mean blondie with the perky tits, not the lamp post?”

“Can we please not talk about my aunt’s tits?” Jon cautiously releases his hold on the plate. Ygritte drags it back, but she only takes a forkful of eggs and shoves it in her mouth, so Jon thinks he’s safe.

“And what do you mean, you think? Don’t you know your relatives?” Ygritte frowns at her eggs and shakes more salt onto them.

“Not really,” Jon says. “The Starks, sure, but the rest …”

Ygritte looks over her shoulder again. “She looks like she’s your age.”

“Just about, if it’s who I think it is,” Jon says. “A few years older.”

“What are you, a Frey or something?”

Jon recoils in horror. “No!” 

Ygritte squints at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” Jon shudders at the mere thought of being related to Walder Frey. He hopes Robb never gets back with Roslin, even cousins-in-law would be too close. “I’m a Targaryen.”

“But you’re named Snow. Which is weird, by the way, who uses bastard names any more?”

“People who don’t like their fathers,” Jon says. “Or mothers.” 

“Ooh, drama.” Ygritte leans forward, food forgotten. “So you hate your parents and your aunt is a young hottie. You’ve got shocking depths, Jon Snow.”

Jon groans.

“My father was 20, my mother was 15,” he explains. “Rhaegar was married, he dumped his wife and his two kids to run off with my mom and they left me with Uncle Ned and Aunt Cat and went to Hollywood.”

“So they’re famous?” 

Jon shifts in his seat. “Kinda.”

Ygritte grins. “You do keep secrets. But how’s your aunt so young then?”

Jon shrugs. “I don’t know, there was some drama with my grandfather on that side, they left Westeros. But I guess they had a big gap between kids, so Daenerys would only be a couple years older than I am.”

“And she’s hot.”

“I really would prefer not to consider that.” Jon looks again. The woman is still waiting. “The Starks never got over my dad getting my mom knocked up in high school, so I don’t know any of his side of the family. And it’s not like I have any shortage of relatives.”

“How the fuck do you avoid each other in a town this size?” Ygritte seems suspicious. 

“They live in Pentos. Or they did. I don’t know,” Jon says. “But she looks a lot like my father.” 

Ygritte demolishes a piece of toast. “So what are you gonna do?”

Jon stares at his pancakes. “I don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Jon. He tries. And Dany IS hot, but he's going to work very hard to ignore that fact. 
> 
> Also, they are totally going to use handcuffs in bed. But Jon is going to put his foot down and buy ones meant for that, not his uncomfortable law enforcement cuffs.


	57. Tonight's The Night The World Begins Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne gets roped into the Westeros New Year's Eve Gala.

It turns out that Brienne does receive an invitation to the Lannister Bank New Year’s Eve Gala, as does every business owner (except Asha and Asha’s father) in Westeros. Which means Brienne is definitely going, because her father is delighted by his own invitation. 

Brienne wears the same blue jumpsuit from the Christmas party, out of a stubborn refusal to cave in to Sansa and her father’s pleading to get something new. And because she really can’t stomach the idea of seeing how bad she’d look in a gown.

The Lannister bank lobby has been transformed into a ballroom for the occasion, glittering with lights and gold decorations. Brienne clutches her father’s arm as they walk in. She’s only interacted with a few Lannisters, but it’s enough for her to be worried. 

Jaime may be turning out to be somewhat less awful than Brienne had initially imagined, and Tyrion actually seems rather kind, but the brief moment meeting Jaime’s father at church had been more than enough for Brienne. And he is just one of many Lannisters, if Sansa’s rambling lecture to prepare Brienne for the event is accurate. 

The gala, if Brienne understands it, is mostly for business owners and the wealthy in Westeros. It’s largely meant to be the adults, the oldest generations, but some of the adult children in the bigger families attend. Sansa and her brother Robb will be here, Brienne knows, largely because they’re expected to take over their parent’s department store someday. 

The second they walk in the door, Brienne knows she’s underdressed. There are elaborate evening gowns everywhere, and so many diamonds Brienne thinks she might go blind from the general sparkle. 

Selwyn, of course, is immediately greeting people and shaking hands. There is a lot of gold in the room, Brienne realizes, and red. Probably Lannisters, since Sansa mentioned that many people wear their traditional house colors, the ones their families had before immigrating. Which is ridiculous, in Brienne’s opinion, since houses don’t mean anything now. If they ever did. There’s even a school of thought that the traditions of sigils and colors has been overemphasized to appeal to American tourists. It hasn’t stopped her father from wearing a rose vest and bow tie with his tuxedo.

Brienne does her best to slink along the wall, but of course she can’t escape the Starks. Sansa and Catelyn both look effortlessly elegant in grey gowns, and neither of them is willing to let Brienne lurk in corners. 

“Sansa has been telling me about the shelter’s financial situation,” Catelyn says, pulling Brienne forward. She stops to get them both glasses of champagne from a waiter. “There are a lot of people here who need to make some charitable donations to lower their taxes, you should let people know all the good you’re doing.”

“We can do fundraisers too,” Sansa says. “I have some ideas. But this is certainly easier.”

The gleam in Sansa’s eyes when she says fundraiser is alarming. 

Cat introduces Brienne to a number of people she barely registers, aside from the impression that everyone here is far better at this than Brienne is. Though it is a relief to meet the Mormonts, or at least a few of them, because Maege and Dacey have both shown up to the gala in tuxedos, looking completely unbothered by the looks some women are giving them. 

(“Not lesbians,” Sansa had said of the Mormonts when going over some of the families. “Though you’d never guess that.”)

Dacey eyes Brienne up and down in a way that Brienne knows well. But rather than a snide remark, Dacey only asks if Brienne has ever considered becoming a firefighter.

Brienne has not, but Dacey makes her promise to at least think about it and punches her number into Brienne’s phone. 

Brienne almost jumps out of her skin when she hears Catelyn say Marbrand, but it isn’t Addam, only a few older men that Brienne thinks must be related to him. They are both kind enough as Cat explains what Brienne (and Asha, though she is carefully not mentioned) is doing at the shelter. The Crakehalls are less interested, giving Brienne the kind of dismissive look she’s used to and sniffing about nuisance animals.

It’s a relief to spot Margaery, resplendent in a sparkling gold dress that shows a lot of leg. Cat’s smile becomes a little forced, however, as they make their way over to where Margaery is standing with an older woman in a classy blue gown with a lace top that shows off a large diamond pendant. 

“My dear, you are singular,” Olenna says, when introduced to Brienne. “Next year we must get you into a gown, something with a slit to show off those lovely legs.” 

“Oh, I don’t think —” Brienne starts.

“Nonsense.” Olenna waves her off. “You have legs for days, darling, you must show them off. Heavens knows I couldn’t carry off a gown like that, even when I was young enough for it to be appropriate.”

She gestures across the room at a young woman in a red velvet dress with a slit up to mid-thigh. 

“Brienne is self-conscious, grandmother.” Margaery pats her grandmother’s arm. “We’ll have to ease her into it.” 

“Is this because of men?” Olenna peers up at Brienne. “Most men are weak. They don’t like powerful women, whether they’re powerful because of their bodies or their money. And those men aren’t worth knowing. Just knock them into the dust and step over them on your way to something better.”

Cat is stifling a laugh.

“Ned’s one of the good ones,” Olenna says. “Good thing too, since I suspect we may be family someday, Catelyn.”

Margaery turns red at that, a sight Brienne thought she’d never see, and tugs Brienne off with a hasty excuse about introducing her to someone. Margaery disappears with Sansa, though, and Brienne slinks back to the edge of the room, stopping only to grab a mini shrimp cocktail from a waiter. 

“Have you tried the duck breast?” a young woman with dark hair speaks up from next to Brienne. She’s more casually dressed than most of the people Brienne has seen so far. “It’s amazing.” 

Brienne hasn’t, and the woman, who introduces herself as Meera Reed, flags down one of the circulating waiters. Meera looks about as unenthused about the event as Brienne feels, and they work their way through the cold duck breast on a baguette, mini beef wellingtons, wild mushroom tarts, seared tuna on crostini, and a variety of stuffed dates as they talk about the shelter and opportunities for search and rescue dog training. 

“There’s so much of the Gift that’s backcountry,” Meera says, licking barbeque sauce off her fingers as she finishes a tiny rib. “It’s definitely something only experienced hikers should do, but no matter what you do idiots go out there and get themselves lost.”

Brienne chews on what must be her fifth lamb lollipop as she mulls the idea. 

“We tell them not to go when they’re renting gear,” Meera says. “The rangers tell them not to go. But then they go anyway.”

“Is anyone already using search dogs?” Brienne asks. 

Meera shakes her head. “Old Aemon used to, but his dog died, and he’s too old to get out anyway. Problem is, not all dogs are suited for it. What would be best is if we had a chance to give some dogs a trial and see which ones are good at scenting a trail.”

By the time Meera’s father waves her over, Brienne has another number in her phone and a plan. She probably should feel guilty that she’s not doing much to raise money, but adopting animals out is just as important. 

Ducking the Stark women, Brienne finds her father chatting with a plump older woman wearing a red dress that displays a prodigious amount of cleavage. 

“Starfish!” Selwyn beams down at her. “This is Genna Lannister. Did you know the bank also sponsors a polar bear plunge every year?”

“Dad, no,” Brienne says. She shakes Genna’s hand, and turns back to her father. “It’s only supposed to get into the 20s.”

“It’ll be bracing! Like our ocean swims.” From her father’s face, Brienne can tell he’s already signed them up. It won’t matter if she points out that January in Tarth is usually in the fifties, at least. 

“You don’t have to swim,” Genna says. “You can always cheer people on.”

“Oh, she’ll swim,” Selwyn promises. Brienne glares at him. 

“You know dear, I’ve heard so much about you from my nephew.” Genna changes the subject as she looks between them. “The kittens have made a huge difference for Tommen, Jaime is just so grateful for all your help.”

“You know the Lannisters?” Selwyn is now looking at Brienne with undisguised curiosity. 

“Not really,” Brienne is saying, just as Jaime comes up, bending over to hug his aunt before turning to Brienne. 

“Wench!” 

“What did you just call me?” Brienne frowns at Jaime. 

“You’re the cat wench,” Jaime says, as if that is some kind of explanation. “And didn’t we talk about smiling?”

“ _You_ talked about smiling,” Brienne tells him. “I’m not obligated to do anything.”

“You should though.” Jaime fusses with his bow tie. His tuxedo fits like he was born to wear one. “It’s a party, they’re fun. Haven’t you been to parties before?”

“I have been to parties.” Brienne wills her voice to remain calm. 

“Oh, that’s right, you were there at Christmas.” Jaime makes a show of looking around. “No date? I haven’t seen Addam.”

“I’m not dating Addam,” Brienne says.

“Yet,” her father adds. 

“Marbrand?” Genna says. “He’s a lovely boy.”

“He’s all right,” Jaime says, dismissively. “Terrible choice wench, I’m telling you.”

“Not your decision,” Brienne reminds him. 

“I’m just looking out for you,” Jaime says. “I owe you for the cats.” 

“It’s my job.” 

“Yes, well.” Jaime suddenly looks alarmed. “Oh shit, it’s the Sand sisters.”

He ducks behind Genna, as if the woman who barely comes up to Brienne’s chest is going to have any hope of hiding him from view.

Brienne looks behind her to see a trio of dark-haired women in orange attire that can only be described as provocative. She vaguely recognizes one of them as the owner of the salon and another as the owner of the sex shop on the same block as the vet’s office, which makes her blush just thinking about it.

“Last year Obara grabbed my ass,” Jaime is saying to Genna. “I don’t need that again.”

Brienne doesn’t know which one is Obara, but she has a hard time imagining any man would be too upset about being groped by any of the three sisters. Her father is certainly eyeing the women in a way that makes Brienne want to pull out his driver’s license and remind him again that he’s not a young man any more. 

Before she gets the chance to say anything, Genna is tugging on Selwyn’s arm, insisting he escort her to the bar for a cocktail. Brienne is left with Jaime, who stares at the pair as they leave.

“Pray for your dad if Genna’s got her sights on him,” Jaime says. 

Brienne snorts. “At least she’s age appropriate. The last one was younger than I am.”

Jaime laughs a little but doesn’t stop looking over Brienne’s shoulder. “Well, perhaps she’s met her match, finally.”

“Or they’ll join forces and all of Westeros should cower.” Brienne can already tell Genna is a force to be reckoned with. Not usually her father’s type, but his type has never lasted more than four months, so maybe change is good.

“Oh god, Obara’s coming.” Jaime looks at Brienne. “Dance with me.”

Brienne rolls her eyes. “Jaime, you’re a grown man, you can deal with a woman.” 

“You only say that because you don’t know Obara,” Jaime says. 

“Well then surely you can find someone else to dance with,” Brienne gestures at the other women standing not far from them. Meera is busy stalking a waiter who’s carrying a tray of cream puffs, but most of the other women seem to be posing decoratively in hopes of joining the waltzing that’s started. 

“Yes, but I want to dance with you,” Jaime says. “Preferably before Obara reaches us and I’m irreprably traumatized.”

Jaime reaches out and takes Brienne’s hand when she doesn’t move, tugging them towards the dance floor. 

“If you don’t dance with me now,” Jaime continues. “I’ll be forced to dance with the Sands and by the time I find you again, I’ll be so broken down I won’t manage to dance very well and you’ll be left with a terribly poor impression of me.”

“Who says I don’t already have a terribly poor impression of you?” Brienne finds she doesn’t know how to dismiss Jaime politely, since he’s not budging and somehow finds herself resting her hand on Jaime’s shoulder as he takes the other one, feeling utterly ridiculous. “How do you know I can even dance?”

“Everyone can dance,” Jaime says. “And you like me, you gave me cats.”

“I adopted cats to you, which is my job,” Brienne corrects. Unfortunately, she does know how to waltz, thanks to her father’s attempts to make her more ladylike in her youth. Jaime is a decent enough lead, at least, not pushing her around but not holding her so softly she can’t tell what he’s trying to get her to do.

“Always so dour,” Jaime says. “We’re dancing, this is fun.”

“Again, you could dance with someone else,” Brienne says. 

“But they might besmirch my virtue,” Jaime says. Brienne can’t help laughing a little and he grins in response.

“I wasn’t aware you had virtue,” Brienne says. “Besides, aren’t those the type of women men are looking for?”

They pass Margaery and Sansa on the floor, and Sansa gives Brienne a thumbs up behind Jaime’s back. 

“Not always,” Jaime says, and the look on his face keeps Brienne from asking any more. 

They are quiet for a few minutes, enough for Brienne to almost relax, when Jaime’s face suddenly turns serious.

“Tommen has really taken to the kittens,” Jaime says. “He’s speaking again… usually to or on behalf of the cats, but still. It’s made a big difference for him. I really do owe you thanks.”

“It was my job,” Brienne says. Again. But it’s nice to hear. “What has he named them?” 

“Ser Pounce and Lady Whiskers,” Jaime says. “Myrcy thinks it’s almost as dumb as Snark and Grumpkin.” 

“And Brenna?” Brienne asks. “What are you calling her?”

“Brenna, of course,” Jaime says. 

“You can change it, you know, they aren’t dogs,” Brienne says. “They’ll learn their name, but they adapt very quickly.”

“But you named her Brenna,” Jaime says. Another strange comment he seems to think is explanatory. “She’s doing very well, although she mostly seems to sleep and slap the kittens around if they get too energetic.”

“Sounds about right.”

The song slows down and comes to an end, and Jaime thankfully doesn’t try to do anything crazy like dip Brienne, though he does spin her around with flourish. Brienne steps back as quickly as she can, not expecting Jaime to follow her but also not entirely surprised when he does. 

At least Jaime introduces her to a few of what he calls the ‘more tolerable’ Lannisters, talking about the cats and Tommen’s improvement and the shelter’s need for funding. He must feel very grateful to give Brienne so much attention, but she can’t help getting antsy as the night goes on. 

Her plan has been to leave before midnight, but her father has vanished and Brienne can’t seem to shake her Jaime-shaped shadow.

“I like your necklace,” Jaime says suddenly. He’s been alternating between discussing the cats and needling her about Addam, a situation he seems to find very interesting. Probably laughing at the idea of her and Addam together.

“It was my mother’s.” Brienne knows it doesn’t look nice, not on her, where the pearl and sapphire setting is comically small. But she hadn’t had the heart to turn her father down when he presented her with the pendant and earrings to wear. 

“Did she look like you?”

“No,” Brienne says. “She was very pretty.”

Brienne decides she can leave on her own, there’re no cabs but it isn’t a far walk to her apartment, not really. Or maybe she can just wait near her father’s car. 

“Hey,” Jaime says, as he realizes she’s collecting her coat. “You’re going to miss the countdown.” 

“Yes.” Brienne eyes her flats. They aren’t great for walking, but they’ll do.

“I know Addam isn’t here, but surely you can find someone else to kiss at midnight. It’s bad luck not to, you know,” Jaime says.

“Why is everyone so hung up on Addam?” Brienne snaps. Then she thinks about it. “Or no, how many of you are in on the bet this time? Do you have to get a date or is someone supposed to actually lower themself to fucking me to get the prize?”

Jaime’s mouth opens and closes for a minute. Brienne sighs. Great. And now she’s made a fool out of herself multiple times, with multiple people, for believing their kindness. Again. 

Brienne is almost to the car when Jaime catches up with her. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaime says. “But there’s not anything going on like a bet. I still think Addam’s a bad choice for you, but he’s my friend and he’s not the kind of guy who would do something like that and I don’t want to make you think he is.”

Brienne is still digging through her purse, trying to see if she has a spare set of keys for her dad’s car. “Fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaime says. Brienne still can’t look at him. “I wasn’t trying to — he really wouldn’t.” 

“And now you’ve told me that,” Brienne folds her arms and glares at Jaime. “Are you done mocking me now? Or do you want to follow me home, too?”

“I wasn’t …” Jaime trails off and shrugs. “Happy New Year, then.”

“Happy new year,” Brienne mutters, as she can hear the countdown starting inside while Jaime walks back to the bank. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the prompt fills which means from here on out, you get ALL NEW CONTENT. *jazz hands* I've been struggling through a bit of writer's block, but it seems to be easing, so it should be fairly regular. Kudos to ladybugbear, my most excellent beta, for handling the massive amount of chapters I suddenly am throwing at her. She's a saint, y'all. 
> 
> Poor Jaime does not know what he stepped into. And the Addam thing is still there — but while Addam and Brienne are not endgame, it IS going to be good for her, kind of a practice run where she isn't as invested. And he is a nice guy, don't worry, he's gonna get another lady who can bench press him. 
> 
> Do you want pictures of everyone's dress? Yes you do. First, Brienne's [jewelery](https://www.macys.com/shop/product/cultured-freshwater-pearl-6mm-sapphire-1-2-ct.-t.w.-jewelry-set-in-sterling-silver?ID=5169902A&CategoryID=72343) and [jumpsuit](https://www.asos.com/us/outrageous-fortune-tall/outrageous-fortune-tall-plunge-front-jumpsuit-in-navy/prd/11614908) which she wears with a camisole underneath. 
> 
> [Catelyn](https://www.jjshouse.com/A-Line-Princess-V-Neck-Sweep-Train-Chiffon-Evening-Dress-With-Beading-Sequins-Cascading-Ruffles-0171534A22-g153422), [Sansa](https://www.jjshouse.com/A-Line-Princess-Scoop-Neck-Floor-Length-Tulle-Evening-Dress-With-Ruffle-Beading-Appliques-Lace-Sequins-017065555-g65555), [Olenna](https://www.jjshouse.com/Ball-Gown-V-Neck-Floor-Length-Satin-Evening-Dress-017147968-g147968), [Margaery](https://www.macys.com/shop/product/xscape-one-shoulder-sequin-gown?ID=10043713&CategoryID=71454&swatchColor=Gold#fn=COLOR%3DGold), [Meera](https://www.macys.com/shop/product/lauren-ralph-lauren-satin-collar-cocktail-dress-created-for-macys?ID=10134521&CategoryID=71454#fn=COLOR%3DGreen), [Genna](https://www.macys.com/shop/product/betsy-adam-plus-size-ruched-gown?ID=10144914&CategoryID=37038), [Obara](https://www.couturecandy.com/products/tarik-ediz-sculpted-seamed-gown-92488), [Tyene](https://www.couturecandy.com/products/jovani-60264-sleeveless-halter-jersey-jumpsuit), and [Nymeria](https://www.couturecandy.com/products/sherri-hill-52762-fitted-two-piece-plunging-v-neck-dress). Yes, I felt the need to find dresses they'd all wear. 
> 
> For reference: Obara is NOT that bad, Jaime is being dramatic and she can be persistent. 
> 
> Jaime did not kiss anyone at midnight, and is confused about why he feels sad about that. Genna kisses Selwyn, Margaery and Sansa almost cause a small scandal, Ned and Cat sigh and remember when they were that young and brash, and Meera kisses the waiter holding a tray of triple chocolate cheesecake that she's finally managed to get her hands on.


	58. So Cold Up North**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne does not want to jump into a lake when it's below freezing. The fact that it's in public just makes it worse.

Brienne does _not_ want to be at the polar bear plunge, even less than she had when her father proposed the idea last night. Her dad had been so perplexed to see her at the car, and when she’d tried to explain his face had just … fallen.

And if Brienne thinks about it, Jaime had seemed so disappointed in her accusations too. Which is fair, if there truly isn’t any prank happening. It is a pretty awful thing to accuse someone of doing.

But how is Brienne supposed to know if people might be sincere this time?

Selwyn has still dragged her out to The Gift, where the rangers are corralling a small but energetic group of idiots in swimsuits. Idiots that include Brienne, apparently. And Asha, who is busy boasting that Greyjoys are of the sea and no water can defeat them 

Brienne recognizes Sansa’s uncle as one of the rangers busy organizing the crowd, and she sees Genna Lannister helping a few other people who are setting up piles of blankets and urns of hot coffee. Brienne also sees Jaime, who turns away as soon as he sees her. 

It only gets worse when Brienne sees Addam, who has already stripped down from outer clothes and is strolling along the shore in a pair of swim trunks. Brienne can’t help but notice that Addam looks good in them. For a lawyer, he’s in very good shape. Brienne is still shivering in the sweatsuit she’s wearing when he starts making his way over.

“Oh Selwyn,” Asha says, when Addam gets closer. “Didn’t you need to show me the … the thing?”

“Oh yes,” Selwyn manages to get out after Asha jabs him with an elbow. “Yes, the uh. Stuff. Right.” 

No amount of pleading will get them to stay and so Brienne is by herself when Addam reaches her. His smile is slow and easy as he looks up at her, because of course he’s a good bit shorter than she is. As are most men. 

“I’m glad you called,” Addam says.

Brienne hears a stifled shriek that can only belong to Asha come from somewhere behind her. She can’t help bracing herself for whatever is coming next. 

“It’s okay if you changed your mind,” Brienne says, in case it is a prank, maybe she can sound like she wasn’t too interested. That might take the fun out of it.

“Why would I do that?” Addam blinks at her, like he’s trying to puzzle it out. “I did want to check if you had any preferences for food? Allergies, massive dislikes?”

“Not Evenfall’s,” Brienne says quickly.

“Okay, I’m glad we’re going out but if you don’t like pizza...” Addam starts, in a tone Brienne thinks is teasing.

“I like pizza,” Brienne says. “But my dad owns it.”

Addam goes a little pale. “Your dad? The tall guy? With the beard?”

“That’s him.” 

“Yeah, okay. Not Evenfall’s.” Addam glances at her. “Here’s a tip, you might want to ditch the sweats sooner, the more you adjust to the cold, the easier it is when you hit the water.”

Brienne groans. “I’m going to kill my dad.”

“He’s the fan of extreme experience?” Addam is looking at her expectantly, and the last thing Brienne wants is to take off her clothes in front of a man, but there’s really no getting out of the fact that she’s eventually going to have to disrobe in the crowd. 

“He’s a fan of Genna Lannister,” Brienne says, which makes Addam laugh out loud, throwing his head back. Brienne takes the moment to hurriedly step out of her sweats while he’s not paying attention. 

She doesn’t miss the once-over he gives her after, where she’s sure he can see all her faults. Even a modest one piece lets people see enough, the smallness of Brienne’s breasts, the thickness of her waist, the way her shoulders and arms are bulky with muscle. 

It’s not that she goes to great lengths to hide these things, but clothing still minimizes a lot of flaws. 

“Genna is known for convincing men to do all sorts of things,” Addam says. “I’ll warn you now.”

“It can’t be worse than some of the things he’s done on his own,” Brienne offers. “And he still refuses to tell me his Navy stories.”

Someone shouts a five minute warning and Addam gives her a nod before ambling back over to the group of people he’s with — a group that includes Jaime. Brienne wonders if Addam will still be glad she called when Jaime tells him what Brienne said on New Year’s.

If it isn’t some cruel prank, anyway. 

The group Addam is with is full of beautiful people, Brienne can’t help noticing. Lots of blond and red hair, some people she saw at the gala. Mostly related, she thinks, watching the way they joke and shove at each other, like the Starks. That should make it easier to stomach, as she watches the women in the group pacing in their bikinis to stay warm, but it doesn’t. Brienne can’t imagine being so effortlessly beautiful, not like Addam or Jaime who stand half-dressed like it’s nothing to them.

Of course neither of them have anything to be ashamed of, looking like sculptures come to life.

Asha slings her arm around Brienne. “You called, I am so proud.”

Selwyn is beaming. “He seems like a nice young man, Brienne. Very handsome.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Brienne tells them both. “We’ll have dinner once and I’m sure that will be it.”

“Don’t think like that,” Selwyn says, but he seems distracted and keeps trying to flex his muscles in the direction of the people setting up blankets near the shore. Brienne sighs. Selwyn puffs his chest out as Genna Lannister turns to look their way.

Brienne refocuses her attention on Asha, who is adjusting her board shorts and surf shirt. 

“New Year’s Resolution for you,” Asha says. “Stop doubting yourself and understand how sexy you are.”

Brienne makes a face. She understands exactly how sexy she is — and that is not at all. 

“New Year’s Resolution for you,” she retorts. “Admit you’re in a relationship with Val.” 

It’s with great satisfaction that Brienne sees Selwyn’s attention turn to Asha, demanding to know why he hasn’t met her young woman yet and wondering why Asha has kept it a secret. Even the whistle blowing and the race to plunge into the water doesn’t prevent Selwyn from pestering Asha. 

The lake is beyond freezing, especially when Asha insists they duck their heads all the way under for the full experience. Luckily, there are volunteers with stacks of towels and blankets to wrap them in as they come back to shore, and cups of hot coffee to drink through chattering teeth. 

Brienne hopes the cold is a good excuse for the redness in her cheeks when Addam stops by as he’s leaving to say he’ll see her Monday night. She watches Asha cackle to herself at the way Brienne is flustered, and the way her father is busy flirting with Genna and tries to ignore the way Jaime Lannister won’t meet her gaze even when they’re in arms reach.

They aren’t even friends, but Brienne can’t help feeling she’s disappointed him somehow, and it hurts more than she expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drumroll* ALL NEW CONTENT. *jazz hands* *tap dance routine*
> 
> Ahem. BIG THANKS to Ladybugbear who has been beta-ing a mountain of fic. New chapters might be a little less consistently posted, since there is no longer a backlog, but I'm going to try to work ahead.
> 
> Poor Brienne, she's got a lot of emotions to work through. And you know. A freezing cold lake. And a ridiculous father.


	59. The House In The Pines Where The Road Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's time for Asha to admit things with Val are a bit serious.

It's certainly the kind of place Asha never thought she'd be spending any amount of time, Val's cabin. The cabin with it's never-ending list of projects, the constant stream of daily tasks, the wood-burning stove and the complicated solar power system and rows of home-canned food.

A burst of cold air follows Val into the cabin, snow covering her hair.

"I ran you a bath since it's freezing outside," Asha blurts out. 

Val raises her eyebrows, or tries to... Her face looks a little bit frozen in place.

"I thought it would be nice?" Asha says. Admittedly, it's not her usual style, she's more of a how about I go down on you until you forget what cold is kind of woman, but Asha has range. 

Val still sinks into the steaming bath with a sigh, leaning her head back on the porcelain tub. For all the general eco-friendliness, Val did spring for a very large, very deep bathtub that Asha greatly enjoys. Especially when there's a naked Val inside of it.

"You're not joining me?" Val asks.

"No." Asha watches Val relax into the tub, a flush creeping up her pale skin. "I was thinking about what you've been saying."

"Mmmm?" Val's eyes are closed already. 

"About me staying here more regularly."

"You mean moving in?" Val still doesn't open her eyes.

"I'd like to try it." Asha takes a breath. "I mean I want to but if Theon isn't okay on his own I can't --"

"Of course." Val sits up. "You don't have to move in if you don't want to."

"But you want commitment."

"I thought we had it?" Val looks over. "Unless you've been sleeping with someone else?"

"No," Asha says. "But I don't know if I even can live with someone else and I'd rather find out sooner than later."

"It _has_ only been three months," Val says. "We can take time to think about it."

"Do you not want me to move in?" Asha frowns.

"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't." Val gives a little sigh and wiggles further down in the bath.

Asha thinks about her house. It's ... well, it's not the nicest house, certainly. It's half falling apart, despite all the work she's had done since she bought the place. A fixer upper was all she could afford — and fixer upper is a very optimistic view of her house.

But buying meant she could own as many dogs as she wants, smoke as much weed as she wants, not have to worry about creepy landlords or maintenance workers showing up unexpectedly.

It's been an even bigger godsend than Asha could have imagined, lately, with Theon. He's getting better, but Asha doesn't know if he'll ever be the same person he was before Ramsay.

Ramsay is lucky he still has his head attached to his body after Asha learned how he treated Theon.

It's home, though, a place Asha has gotten with hard work and determination. The first thing she's really owned, having spent a good chunk of college crashing on people's couches or living out of a van. Then vet school, rooming with Brienne and crashing with the Starks when she came back to Westeros. 

The house is Asha's, it's proof she's not going to be like her father and uncles, proof she can do something with her life. 

Of course, so is the vet's office and the animal shelter.

"You could start by bringing some stuff over," Val suggests. "I don't want you to feel like a guest here."

Asha tries to picture her thrift store finds and collection of pirate paraphernalia in Val's homey cabin. 

"I don't think it would fit," Asha says. "And I'm not that attached to it anyway."

Val frowns. "I don't want you to just ... leave it all to me."

Asha sighs. "Why not? You're better at all this than me."

"This?"

Asha waves her hand. "Home. Domesticity."

“It’s not about being good at it,” Val says. “It’s about making a home that reflects the people who live there.”

Asha trails her hand through Val’s bathwater. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Val grins up at her. “I think I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asha is having her own set of complicated issues. 
> 
> Hope everyone is coping okay in our new era of isolation. My cats are thrilled, at least.


	60. Wanna Sex You Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least they've made it into Shireen's apartment this time.

At least this time, they’ve made it inside Shireen’s apartment. 

Shireen is sure they make for a ridiculous sight, crammed onto her tiny loveseat in a tangle of limbs. Not that she cares very much, when Rickon is pressing her into the cushions and trailing his lips over her skin.

He finds a spot under her ear that tears a gasp from Shireen’s throat and makes her arch up against him. She can feel him, hard against her thigh and she wonders if she’s supposed to be scared, all things considered.

“If you keep making those sounds, I’m not going to be able to stop myself,” Rickon mutters, pushing his hips forward for emphasis. 

Shireen isn’t scared, though, even if she’s never done this before. She just wants more. Her fingers clutch at Rickon, sliding through his hair and gripping his shoulders. His jacket is somewhere by the door and Shireen yanks at his tee shirt until he gets the hint and tears it off, tossing it somewhere behind him.

Rickon’s chest and shoulders are covered with tattoos, and Shireen decides immediately that she wants to trace every single one of them with her tongue. When she leans up to do just that, Rickon hisses and grinds his hips into hers.

Shireen whimpers and clutches at his shoulders. Everything about this feels so good, so perfect and yet somehow still not enough. Rickon’s hand sliding up under her skirt and over her thighs, his other hand trying to find a closure on her dress. Shireen can’t help giggling at Rickon’s growl of frustration as he paws at the material. Rickon bites gently on her neck in response and Shireen gasps.

“Your dress is mean,” Rickon mumbles against her skin. “It’s keeping me away from you.” 

“I thought you liked my dress,” Shireen manages to retort, pushing gently on his shoulders. 

“I do, I’d just like it on the floor,” Rickon says. He finally gets the hint and shifts back so Shireen can sit up. His hair is mussed and he’s pouting at her like one of her students who’s been denied a favorite toy. 

“It zips in the back,” she explains. 

Shireen is halfway through tugging the zipper down when reality starts to sink in. 

“I should probably tell you something,” Shireen says. Rickon is staring at her with a glazed over kind of expression, even though she’s just as covered up as before, her dress looser around the shoulders.

“Rickon?” Shireen asks, when he doesn’t say anything. 

“Yep,” Rickon says. He squeezes her thigh, his hand warm and calloused. 

Shireen considers not telling him, but that seems like a very bad idea. Besides, he deserves to know, right? It’s not like her situation is typical, exactly, and Shireen knows her lack of experience is another mark in the ‘undateable’ column for some guys. 

Shireen closes her eyes. It’s easier not to look at Rickon when she says it. 

“I haven’t done this before.”

Rickon doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move, and when Shireen opens her eyes, he’s still staring intently at her.

“Rickon?”

He finally shakes his head, like a dog shaking off water. Shireen wills herself to stay put, not to move away. She’s not going to be ashamed of herself. 

“You haven’t done this before,” Rickon repeats. He doesn’t sound like he’s quite grasping what she’s saying. Shireen sighs.

“I haven’t had sex.” 

Rickon’s eyes widen a bit, but at least he’s finally grasping the situation. 

Maybe Shireen shouldn’t have sprung this on him when they’re half-undressed and tangled together on her loveseat. 

“Oh,” Rickon finally says. “Do you … want to? I mean, in general. Not now, specifically.”

“Yes.” 

Rickon nods a few times. “Okay. Good. I mean. Whatever anyone wants is good. But I’m glad …”

A nervous giggle escapes Shireen before she can stop it. Something about that seems to set Rickon off, and then they’re both laughing. When Shireen finally gathers herself back together, her dress has slipped halfway off one shoulder, and Rickon is staring again.

“I don’t want to push you,” Rickon says. “We don’t have to do anything more than you’re ready for.” 

“I don’t know what I’m ready for,” Shireen confesses. “I haven’t exactly been in this situation before.”

Rickon quirks an eyebrow at her. “Really?”

Shireen shrugs. Rickon reaches out with one finger and traces along her collarbone, nudging the dress a little lower. 

“Guys aren’t exactly clamoring to date me,” Shireen says. “Even when I’m not being a Luke Skywalker kind of hermit.” 

“Do you need an island full of porgs?” 

“Porgs are cute. I’d take an island full of porgs.” Shireen makes a decision and reaches back and tugs her zipper the rest of the way down. “Is it alright if I don’t … know exactly what I want? Right now?”

“As long as you promise to tell me when you need me to stop.” Rickon’s voice is more serious than Shireen as heard before. She nods, and Rickon gives her a sharp grin before pulling her onto his lap and yanking her dress up over her head.

It’s so easy to lose herself in it, the way her head spins anytime Rickon gets close. It’s even better when her clothes are out of the way and his lips are running over all the skin he can reach, his thigh solid and steady between hers. Shireen spares a brief moment of concern over the fact that her bra and panties don’t match — at least she had the sense not to wear the ones with doughnuts on them — but Rickon doesn’t seem to mind. Not in the slightest, if the way he growls and moans and pushes his hips up against her is any indication. 

Still, when Rickon’s fingers start tugging at the cups of her bra, Shireen finds herself pulling back.

“I’m sorry,” she says, as Rickon stares down at her, lips swollen and eyes dark.

“Don’t be.” Rickon kisses her on the forehead, and then gently nudges Shireen off his lap. “I might need a minute, though.” 

Shireen forces herself to stand on shaky legs and get her robe. She tries not to be self-conscious about the fact that it’s covered in tiny dinosaurs. She fails, especially when Rickon smirks and starts tracing the design with his fingers and naming the various dinosaurs. “Is that a T-Rex or a velociraptor?” Rickon frowns at one of the printed beasts.

“I’m not sure.” Shireen has wondered that herself, more than a few times. “Though velociraptors were actually tiny. The ones in Jurassic Park were really Utahraptors.”

“That’s a terrible name.”

“Better than Denversauraus. Or Szechuansaurus.” 

“What would dinosaur taste like?” Rickon flattens his hand over Shireen’s stomach, and she resists the urge to sigh and arch into his hand, which would be completely counterproductive to the whole not making out idea. 

“Chicken, probably. I mean, they did evolve into birds.” Shireen reflects. “Maybe really tough chicken. Like old rooster.” 

Rickon wrinkles his nose, then sighs. “I should go.” 

“Probably.” Shireen resolutely ignores the part of herself that wants him to stay. “For now.”

It still takes several more minutes — and kisses — before Rickon finally retrieves his shirt and jacket, stopping at the door to kiss Shireen in a way that makes her toes curl and her mind go blank. “Are you free tomorrow?”

Shireen has no idea. “Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Szechunasaurus is a real dinosaur.
> 
> Rickon is trying in his own awkward way to ask if Shireen is asexual. Although his family may see him as kind of a dumbass, I find people who society considers weird are often way more understanding of people who might not fit the typical mold.
> 
> How are we all holding up in the era of coronavirus? My state's now under shelter in place orders, so that's super fun.


	61. It's Bad When You Annoy Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is trying, and he's getting frustrated with Myrcella's attitude.

"No!" Myrcella shouts at Jaime. "No, I don't want to go to the stupid park or the stupid ice skating rink or the stupid movies! I want to stay home and I want you to LEAVE ME ALONE!"

She slams the door behind her as she storms back into her room. The wall shakes, and Jaime sighs. Tommen, who has been watching TV, picks up Ser Pounce and tries to snuggle him, getting a paw to the face in the process. Ser Pounce is more interested in the fuzzy mice on the floor.

"I'd go ice skating, Uncle Jaime," Tommen says. "But I don't know how. So I'd probably look stupid." 

"I'm not sure I know either," Jaime confesses. "It looks like fun when they do it on TV though." 

He ruffles Tommen's hair and takes several deep breaths before approaching Myrcella's room. This is, according to every parenting book Jaime has managed to struggle through, normal. He has to stay calm. He is the adult.

Myrcella is face down on her bed, blond hair in disarray. Her room is a mess, clothes flung around and the covers on her bed rumpled. There’s a pile of textbooks and an array of papers on and around her desk. Jaime's probably supposed to be making her keep it neater than this. 

"Myrcy, you know you're not supposed to yell and slam doors." Jaime pulls her desk chair next to the bed.

No response.

"Myrcy, look at me. Come on."

Myrcella finally flops over, heaving a sigh like Jaime's just asked her to single-handedly solve world peace. 

"You can't just slam doors and run away when you're upset," Jaime says. 

"Well don't be so annoying, then."

"Myrcy --"

"No. Stop." Myrcy finally sits up, glaring at him. "I don't want to be here, you're not my dad. Why do you want to act like we're some Hallmark family when Dad's dead and Mom's in the nuthouse? Everybody's looking at us, everybody's laughing at us and all you want to do is bake cookies and go ice skating. Do you even _care?_ At all?"

Jaime runs his hand over his face. 

"This is hard for me too, you know," he finally says.

"You don't act like it," Myrcella mutters.

"Because I'm the adult. You and Tommen aren't supposed to see me worry or get upset." 

Myrcella snorts. "Mom got upset all the time."

Jaime is well aware of that, aware of Cersei's drunken rages and inconsolable crying fits. He's picked his way over the broken glass from wine glasses Cersei hurled at Robert's head and tried to get his hysterical sister to go to bed and sleep it off. He's been the one getting phone calls from the clinic or the police who've had to step in when Cersei lost her temper at someone who had the audacity to exist in her general vicinity. 

"Your mother has some challenges," Jaime says, trying to phrase it as best he can. "And they've made it hard for her to be the mother she wants to be. Your mother loves you very much."

"No she doesn't. She loves Joffrey," Myrcella says. "She doesn't love me or Tommen. Nobody does."

"I love you. Uncle Tyrion loves you." Jaime swallows hard. “Your grandfather loves you.”

Tywin does, probably, love his grandchildren. Deep down. Somewhere.

"No you don't. You hardly even know us." Myrcy flops back onto the bed again. "Mom just wanted us so we could stand there and look pretty and make her look good. You just want us so we can look like some stupid family from a movie."

"Is that what you think?" Jaime feels a wave of guilt. He'd known he wouldn't be able to do this well, but it hurts to hear his failure confirmed.

"Why else would you be dragging us through all this stupid stuff? You'll ignore us when you get bored of it."

"I'm doing these things because I want you and Tommen to have fun, and for us to be a family." Jaime sighs. "I know this has all been sudden but I want you to get to do things kids are supposed to do.

Not like when I was a kid, is what he doesn't say. Not like the way they had to be with Cersei, either.

"Real families aren't like that," Myrcella scoffs. "They only look happy on the outside."

"I don't think that's true." Jaime hopes it's not true. It isn't as if he's had a lot of interaction with functional families. But he does see people who look at their siblings and children and parents like they actually enjoy spending time with them.

The Starks, for example. They may be annoying and insufferable but they always seem to be together, roving Westeros in groups of family togetherness. 

"How would you know?"

"I don't," Jaime admits. "But we can try it out?"

Myrcella rolls her eyes. "Mom always said you were a useless dreamer."

"Myrcella," Jaime says. "I know you're upset, but that doesn't mean you get to insult people." 

"What's the point though? Mom's still crazy. Dad's still dead. Joffrey's still a monster." Myrcella sounds far more hopeless than she should at her age. "Everyone still looks at us like maybe we're crazy too."

"You aren't crazy," Jaime says quickly. "Neither of you. And the point is — I don't know Myrcy, it's that we try."

Jaime thinks about all the times in childhood when he'd asked his father to do things. When he asked his dad to help him with Little League pitching, Tywin hired a top-rated coach. When Jaime wanted a summer vacation, Tywin paid a nanny to take all three kids on an over-the-top trip to Disney World but stayed back home to work. When Jaime asked for help with lines so he could audition for the school play, Tywin tossed the script in the trash and told Jaime he had no business wasting time playing pretend when his grades were terrible.

Jaime was the last one to figure it out, of course. Cersei and Tyrion learned early on not to bother. Jaime knows he's called the stupidest Lannister for a reason.

"If we don't try, it definitely doesn't work," Jaime says. "Didn't you do fun things with your mom and dad? Or want to?"

"Why bother?" Myrcella crosses her arms. "It's stupid anyway."

"It's not. And you need to stop saying these things around your brother. Tommen does like some of this, until he hears you calling it stupid."

That actually manages to sink in a little bit. 

"I may have overdone it a bit at Christmas,” Jaime admits. "How about this. I'll try to be a little less intense and you'll try to do some things together without complaining?"

Myrcella sighs and rolls her eyes, but eventually she nods and Jaime figures that’s as good as he’s going to get.

Tyrion, of course, thinks it’s hilarious. He laughs loud enough that Myrcella can probably hear him from behind her closed door, where she is ostensibly sleeping, since it’s eleven o’clock at night. Jaime regrets his impulsive decision to call his brother after both children had gone to sleep, following an awkward dinner with a still-sullen Myrcella and skittish Tommen.

“This is why no one will ever love you,” Jaime says. 

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Tyrion responds. “Especially to a man that just got laid.”

Jaime chokes on his wine a little. He’s saved from responding immediately by a scratching and slightly desperate mewing from behind Tommen’s door. When he cracks it open to let the kittens come flying out, Tommen is fast asleep, one arm curled around the stuffed cat he’s found is easier to snuggle at night than live ones. Jaime decides it’s safe enough to leave the door cracked slightly, since Tommen sleeps through almost anything. 

“It doesn’t count if you pay them.” Jaime sits back down, rolling his eyes at Tyrion. It’s not that he’s got anything against whores, he just doesn’t see the appeal. What’s the point in fucking someone if they don’t care about fucking you, specifically? 

“I didn’t.” Tyrion leans down to scratch Brenna on the head. The older cat is getting braver, leaving Jaime’s room to sniff around Tyrion. 

Jaime stares in shock.

“She’s the one who made your basket.” The way Tyrion says basket emphasizes how ridiculous he still finds the whole thing. 

Jaime’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really?”

“Tysha,” Tyrion says. The edges of his lips curl up a little before he shifts his expression back to his usual smirk. “Delightfully and unexpectedly adventurous for a farmer’s daughter.”

“And you make fun of _me_ for wanting a family,” Jaime grumbles.

“Who said anything about family? It’s a few dates and sex.”

“The look in your eyes.” Jaime gazes at his brother. “You’re not as cynical as you’d like people to believe.” 

“No, I’m worse.” There isn’t any heat in it when Tyrion says it, though. “At least I don’t think life is a movie.”

“I know it’s not a movie,” Jaime snaps. “I just … is it so wrong to want to be happy and loved?”

“Well, it’s certainly not the Lannister way.” Tyrion eyes him thoughtfully. “Anyone in particular you’re thinking of being loved by?”

“No.” In some ways, that hurts worse, not even a prospect Jaime can imagine a life with.

“You’re sure?” 

Jaime frowns. Tyrion has that look again, like he thinks he knows something Jaime doesn't, and that is never good. 

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Tyrion just hums and clinks his wine glass against Jaime’s before moving on to a story about a feud between two of the Sand sisters and how his book store is caught in the middle. 

Jaime has a feeling he hasn’t heard the last of it, though. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of love writing bratty Myrcella. She's going through a lot, and it's definitely understandable that she'd be annoyed by this uncle she hardly knows trying to be the Leave It To Beaver family. Especially when she's used to being left to do whatever she wants. 
> 
> And Jaime just wants to have a real family. And the kittens just want out of Tommen's room at night to use their litter box, eat, and plan world domination.


	62. Seems My Life Is Gonna Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb should be glad Talisa texted him but this is not going at all how he hoped.

Robb should be thrilled that Talisa has finally texted him back. Robb _is_ thrilled that Talisa has finally texted him back.

But there's something off about the text. 

Robb has a hard time putting his finger on what it is that's got him feeling anxious. It isn't like he and Talisa exchanged a lot of texts before they hooked up, so he doesn't really have much of a baseline to compare it to. But what she sent seems short and overly formal. She even used punctuation. 

And Talisa wants to meet outside of town, at the ramshackle barbecue place that, admittedly, has fabulous food. But somehow Robb never got the impression Talisa was much of a barbecue fan.

It's like she doesn't want to be seen with Robb, and Robb isn't sure if he's offended or hurt by it.

He still goes, of course. He's not an idiot.

Craster's is as alarming as always, the building seeming to be held up by three nails and a lot of prayer. But the hickory smoke smells delicious and Robb's stomach growls in response, even though it's only 11 in the morning.

Talisa is in the back, perched on one of the wooden chairs Robb would bet are older than Walder Frey. Her brown hair is pulled back severely, so differently from the way it had hung loose and brushed Robb's shoulders as she rocked above him, her face relaxed with pleasure. 

"I'm glad you called," Robb says, as he gets closer. One of Craster's many daughters — or wives, Robb can never tell which are which, the man is as bad as old Walder — eyes them from the counter, looking supremely annoyed at their presence so early.

"It doesn't mean what you did was okay," Talisa says. 

Craster's wife-or-daughter skulks over to take their order. Robb decides it's not too early for a pulled pork sandwich while Talisa sticks to the breakfast menu. Which contains far less barbecue than Robb expects. He's never been to Craster's so early.

The wait for the food is the most awkward silence Robb has ever felt. Talisa sips her cup of mint tea and gives Robb one word answers until he gives up and accepts he'll just have to wait until she's ready to say whatever she needs to.

Which is, apparently, after the waitress drops their plates of food and retreats into the kitchen. 

"I'm pregnant," Talisa says, just as Robb is bringing his sandwich to his mouth. He drops it back on the plate.

"You're what?" Robb tries to count backward and process Talisa's sentence all at once, and it just feels like static buzzing inside his brain.

"It's yours," Talisa says. 

Robb's food suddenly seems far less appealing, never mind how good it smelled a minute ago. Talisa seems to have no such problem, digging into the mountain of food on her plate.

"But we — " Robb remembers using a condom. He definitely remembers that. 

"Ninety-eight percent effective." Talisa stabs at her biscuits and gravy like they've offended her. 

“Oh.” Robb stares at her. “You’re sure?”

“I took five tests.” 

“Oh.” 

Talisa stares at him, eyebrows raised, like she’s expecting something. 

"So do you want to ... are you going to have it?" Robb flounders, not sure if he's supposed to even be asking the question.

"I think so," Talisa says. "I don't know."

"It's up to you," Robb says, even though he does feel a surge of sorrow at the thought, surprisingly. 

"It's not fair to do it without talking to you, though," Talisa says. "I mean, it's not just me here."

"It's your body, though." Robb's definitely not going to be able to eat his lunch during this discussion. "You're the one who has to be pregnant and give birth."

Talisa shrugs. She looks less confident than Robb is used to seeing her. "I always kind of figured if this happened, I'd have an abortion. But I don't know."

"I want kids," Robb offers. "I mean, I always figured someday in the future but ..."

"I want — my dad's sick," Talisa says. "He's always wanted grandkids and it's terrible timing for me but it would mean a lot to him to get to meet a grandchild." 

"I'm sorry." Robb wants to reach for her, but everything about Talisa's body language is saying she doesn't want him to touch her. "How far along are you?"

"Three months. I know I should have realized it earlier, but I'm trying to prep for the MCAT and I've been so stressed, plus the holidays, I didn't even realize I'd missed my periods until it was too late." Talisa bites her lip. "Plus I wasn't— aside from the one time with you, I haven't been seeing anyone, so I wasn't really thinking about it as a possibility."

"I'm not suggesting you should have," Robb says. He wants to say it's okay, but he's not sure it is.

"If I do this, I'm not doing this by myself." Talisa sets her fork down and takes a breath. "I have plans. I still want to go to medical school, I still want my career. Just because this is happening in my body doesn't mean I'm the only one who has to deal with it."

"Of course not." Robb would be insulted that she even thinks he'd bail, but it's not like anything with him and Talisa has gone well. "We could get married?"

Even as he says it, Robb knows it's the wrong answer, and Talisa just gives him an unimpressed look.

"I'm not marrying someone just because we made a mistake," she says. "If I marry anyone, it will be because I love him." 

"I don't want to just give you money," Robb says, realizing as he says it how much he means it. "I want to be a parent, I want to be involved."

"Just because you're involved with our child doesn't mean you'll be involved with me," Talisa says. "You understand that?"

"I do. But I hope there's a chance you'd consider it," Robb says.

"Robb ..."

"I know you're upset," Robb says. Might as well get everything out. "But I had broken up with Roslin. She just didn't want to hear it. I thought I'd finally gotten through to her and I guess I was wrong but I wasn't cheating on her."

"A break up is a pretty concrete thing," Talisa points out.

"You would think so." Robb sighs. "We'll figure this out. Somehow, right?"'

"I don't think we have a choice." 

Robb feels like he's in a fog all the way home. He doesn't feel at all prepared to be someone's parent, and he certainly doesn't know how you're supposed to be a parent with someone you're not married to or dating.

Never mind that his parents already had several kids by his age. They also had a marriage and a house and Robb has neither of those things.

He should probably get a house.

Would Talisa and the baby live in the house with him?

That seems like a thing he should probably discuss with Talisa.

Robb would like to live with his child. Besides the fact that it's not fair to have most of the work fall on Talisa, Robb has always imagined he'd be involved with his future, until-now-hypothetical children. He remembers his dad rough-housing with him and Jon and Arya and Rickon in the backyard. And Bran, before the accident. He even remembers seeing Ned having tea parties with Sansa, complete with fancy hats. Ned had been a lot more enthusiastic about it than everyone else who got roped into Sansa's plans.

Before Robb even makes a conscious decision, he's pulling up at his parent's house. They're still at work, but he needs time to figure out what he's going to tell them before he sees them, and his childhood bedroom seems like as good a place as any to figure it out.

Maybe it's not cool or manly, but Robb has always figured he'd have a family someday and wanted it. He just didn't imagine it would be in this order, or this soon, or this unexpectedly.

Thirty-two isn't _that_ young, but Robb doesn't feel like an adult most days. Not the way he thinks parents are supposed to feel.

The only person close to his age who he can really imagine taking care of a baby right now is Sansa, because she's been mothering people and things since she could walk. 

Robb hasn't unraveled all his thoughts and feelings by the time his parents get home. He has, however, come with a measured, adult way to tell his parents what is going on.

Which completely goes to hell the second his mother pulls him into a hug, the familiar smell of her perfume and lotion making him feel even more like a child.

"I got someone pregnant," Robb blurts out as soon as Cat steps back.

There's a crashing sound as his father's briefcase hits the floor of the foyer. 

Robb cringes. "I meant to wait until we were sitting down and I'd gotten you drinks or something."

"A drink would be good," Ned says faintly. 

Cat's face has gone an interesting shade of white. Robb wonders if she's going to faint. That would probably be bad, considering the floor in the entrance is stone. 

Cat doesn't pass out, though she also doesn't manage to get her coat off before making her way to the couch and sinking into a seat. Ned pours both of them a healthy dose of scotch before sitting down. 

Robb can't sit, he's got too much nervous energy, and finds himself pacing in front of the fireplace as he spills the entire story.

"You're going to be a father," Ned says, when Robb's done talking. Ned sounds like he's trying to make sense of the words.

"I think so?" Robb scrubs his face with his hands. "We're taking a few days to think about it. It's ultimately up to Talisa."

"I didn't know you were seeing anyone," Cat says. "I'm assuming you're planning on getting married?"

Robb cringes.

"No?" And then he steps back out of his mother's reach. She's never actually slapped any of her kids before, but he's not taking any chances. "I offered! Talisa doesn't want to get married just because there's going to be a baby."

Cat looks like she has something to say about that, but Ned's hand on her knee stops her.

"How long have you two been together?" Ned's tone doesn't leave any room for weaseling out of the question.

“We’re …. Not?” Robb hears his mother’s sharp intake of breath. “It was kind of a one time thing. I mean, it ended up that way. I didn’t mean for it to be that way. It’s complicated.”

“So you’re having a baby, with a woman you aren’t married to, you aren’t dating, and you hardly even know?” Cat asks, in a carefully measured tone that means she’s about three seconds away from losing her temper. 

“Yes? Probably?” Robb says. 

“And what do you plan to do about this?” Ned asks.

“I don’t know yet,” Robb says. “I told Talisa I want to be involved — not just money, though of course I’ll help her, but I want to be there. And she has plans, too, she isn’t going to give up. But I don’t know how it’s all supposed to work.” 

Robb has never seen his parents look so disappointed, and certainly not at him. They didn’t even look like this when Rickon burned down the neighbor’s garage, and that’s definitely ranked as the top Stark children disaster.

At least, it was until today.

“Well, I expect we’ll at least meet this woman?” It’s a question, but it’s not, considering the way his mother looks at him.

Robb smiles weakly. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Robb. Robb, Robb, Robb. 
> 
> He tries, he really does. And this was shockingly hard to write in a world where Talisa does have options. For the record, abortion is a completely acceptable and appropriate option for many women in many situations, and I tried to thread the needle on this, having Talisa choose to continue her pregnancy without making it a judgement on anyone who doesn't make that choice. 
> 
> While this story is set somewhere northern and cold, they have good BBQ because everyone should have real BBQ. Which is pulled pork with vinegar-based sauce, though tomato base is somewhat acceptable as an alternate option. Anyone who puts mustard-based sauce on their BBQ can fuck right off. 
> 
> Also, remember the it's all gonna be okay tag? Yeah. I can't write without ANY angst, but it's gonna be okay, I promise.


	63. Now You're Here And You Don't Know  Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has her date and an enlightening conversation with Sansa.

Brienne refuses to let Sansa or Asha dress her for her date. It's bad enough she's got herself into this, the last thing she needs to do is get dolled up like some stranger. So she meets Addam at Fat Walda's in her usual jeans and grey sweater. If he doesn't like it, that's his problem. He does smirk at her giant sleeping bag sized puffer coat, but so does everyone in the north, so Brienne doesn't hold it against him.

Brienne can't help looking around Fat Walda's nervously, to see if anyone is there just to witness her humiliation. It doesn't seem like it. There's a family with several children under the age of ten who are busy trying to get the kids to eat their food instead of throwing it, a couple of older people with cups of coffee and one table full of teenagers playing some sort of game involving cards and extremely large dice.

That only makes it slightly easier to slide into the booth across from Addam, who looks relaxed and happy. 

Brienne tries to keep it together, through ordering food and trying to answer Addam's perfectly normal questions about her job and her life and how she wound up in Westeros. Except she feels like she's going to jump out of her skin, she can barely form a response and Brienne knows it's completely obvious how ill at ease she is.

Addam confirms it when he puts his fork down on his half-eaten plate of chicken fried steak and looks between Brienne and her almost untouched meatloaf dinner and gives her a small smile.

"I don't want to offend you, but you don't seem like you want to be here," he says.

Brienne can't help feeling guilty at that, especially since he sounds almost disappointed by it. 

"I do," she says. "I just ...it's complicated."

"Oh?" Addam quirks his eyebrows at her.

"You ... you wouldn't understand." Brienne pokes at her plate. The meatloaf really is very good, and she wishes her stomach would calm down so she could eat it. 

"Well, I definitely won't if you don't tell me," Addam says. "But it can't be too bad. Unless you're secretly the Zodiac killer or something."

"No, that would be much more interesting," Brienne admits.

"Maybe not for the rest of us," Addam jokes. Brienne manages a small smile.

"I don't date much," she finally says. Brienne waits for Addam to comment on how obvious that is, but he just stays silent and watches her. "And I haven't really ... you see how I look, most of the men who've asked me out have only meant it as a joke. I don't really know how to ... do this."

To his credit, Addam doesn't brush off her comments, and is clearly thinking his response over before he speaks. 

"I'm definitely not joking," Addam says. "And I like your looks."

"I could probably bench press you," Brienne points out. She looks at her arms and sighs. 

"I know, why do you think I asked you out?" Addam grins at her. "Some of us do like strong women, you know."

"Not very many," Brienne says. "Not to mention my face."

"It's a fine face," Addam says. He pauses. "As for how to do this ... we get food. We talk. If we have fun, we do it again. It doesn't need to be complicated." 

"So everyone keeps telling me."

Addam laughs a little.

"Look, I'll be honest," he says. "I think you're an interesting and attractive person. And I'd be interested in getting to know you more, but I don't get the sense that you're ready for that."

Brienne groans. "It's that obvious."

"A little, yeah." Addam shrugs. "But we could still get to know each other as friends, if nothing else. No expectations." 

"I'm sorry," Brienne says.

Addam looks baffled. "Why? That's what this is about, finding this stuff out. And eating." 

Eating, at least, Brienne can finally do, as the knot in her stomach eases a little. She even manages to ask Addam about his work and life, but that doesn't mean she's not left with the nagging feeling of failure. 

Especially after what Addams says later.

"He thinks I should see a therapist," Brienne tells Sansa, as they're cleaning the dog pens out. "He was very nice about it, but still."

"Well, it's not the worst idea," Sansa says. She turns the hose on one of the empty runs.

"It's that obvious that something is wrong with me?" Brienne wonders, briefly, if she can drown herself in the spray from the hose. 

Probably not.

Also it's cold enough that she'd freeze first, and that's not how she wants to go.

"Nothing is wrong with you," Sansa says firmly. "Therapy is good at working through shitty things that have happened to you, though."

Something in Sansa's voice tells Brienne to tread carefully.

"That's basically what Addam said." Brienne starts hauling dog bowls back to the empty pens. "I just don't — what does talking about it accomplish?"

"It's not just talking. They help you see what has stuck with you, try to help you understand what's real and what's false." Sansa screws up her face like she's trying to decide if she should say something. 

"It's all real," Brienne says. "That's the problem."

"It's not, though. People tell you things because of their issues, not yours and you don't need to let them live rent-free inside your head." Sansa shifts her weight from side to side.

"I know you're self-conscious about being too big," Sansa finally says. "But it's not just — when I was in college I dated someone who picked me because he thought I was weak and easy to control. He told me a lot of things that weren't true. But I believed him. Seeing a therapist helped me understand what he was doing."

"Sansa, I'm so sorry." Brienne does feel bad, because for all the bad things about her body, she does know that it provides a measure of protection from men, who can easily overpower so many women.

"It's fine." Sansa waves her hand. "I mean, it's not, but it's the past. I didn't even like him, I was just trying to be the perfect child I thought I had to be, including being straight. I snapped out of it pretty quick."

"Still ..." Brienne doesn't really know what to say, because it's hard to reconcile the bubbly, enthusiastic woman she knows with someone who has been hurt. 

"Point is, therapy helped," Sansa says. "It helped me sort out, you know, how some of what he said was true, but it wasn’t bad the way he meant it, and some of it was fake and it helped me see which was which."

“I don’t know what a therapist could tell me that I don’t see in a mirror.” 

“A lot,” Sansa says firmly, and that’s the end of that conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A date! Addam is a good guy, really, and far better that Brienne works through this terrible awkwardness with someone other than Jaime.
> 
> As always, thanks to ladybugbear2 for her beta skills and working through all the chapters I throw at her. I hope everyone is surviving isolation and doing okay.


	64. Who Let The Dogs Out?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe dog training classes wasn't such a great idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: There is a brief mention of someone being cruel to a dog. It's not graphic, mostly someone being too rough, the dog is ultimately fine and the man is ... not so much fine and all is well BUT if this is something that bothers you, take note.

"I think it's a very small dog," Dany says. She stares at the group of people gathering for the very first obedience class at Dragon's Egg.

"Are you sure?" Rickon squints. "I think it's a large rat."

"Who would try to train a rat?" Dany asks.

Rickon shrugs.

Dany is starting to wonder if offering obedience classes is a good idea after all. There has been interest, and it turns out Shireen's boyfriend — or whatever, Shireen seems weirdly unsure considering the way Rickon looks at her — is somewhat of an expert at dog training, though, so it's all working out.

Especially the part where Drogo was one of the first people to sign up. 

Drogo's dog is very large and very furry, and also very much asleep on Drogo's shoes. The rest of the crowd has an array of dogs, mostly puppies, but a few fully grown, and the tiny dog.

Or rat, if Rickon is correct.

The woman who owns the dog-rat-thing scoops it up and places it in her purse. Rickon groans. 

"Well," Dany says brightly. "Time for introductions."

Rickon slouches along behind her as she welcomes the class and introduces him. He's still glaring at the tiny dog. Drogo nudges his animal which blinks briefly, then lays back down.

Dany retreats to the registers and tries to watch the class out of the corner of her eye.

Rickon is good with the dogs, Dany admits. Not as great with the people, though, considering how much he snaps at the woman with the dog-rat about treating dogs like dogs, not stuffed toys.

The puppies are enthusiastic, bounding all over as Rickon explains to the owners what the goals are. 

Drogo's dog has to be poked repeatedly to wake up. Drogo looks exasperated.

"Stop embarrassing me," Drogo tells the dog at one point, as Dany tries to casually stroll past the class. "Seriously, dude, it's not cool."

The dog rolls over once before going back to sleep.

It's a very strange collection of people that have shown up. There's Drogo, with his giant furry dog and short sleeved shirt — much like the one Rickon has, actually, do these men not feel cold? — and the rat-dog lady who seems to be wearing the entire makeup counter from Cregan's to go with her giant handbag. Her giant handbag which she keeps putting the dog-rat into, much to Rickon's annoyance. Then there's one of the bartenders from Littlefingers, the one with the burnt face, who is gently stroking what looks like a young pit bull mix. The town librarian is there with a corgi puppy, and a very large, bearded redheaded man who has an incongruously tiny dog with long, white fur. There's also a very annoyed looking man who has a medium sized puppy of indeterminate breed.

Dany almost misses him at first, she's so amused by the rest of the class, but she definitely notices when the man's dog lets out a piercing yelp.

Dany almost vaults over a display of toys, fearing a dog fight, but that's not what she finds when she reaches the class.

Instead, she finds Rickon lunging at the man, Drogo behind him with clenched fists, while the scarred bartender scowls and cradles the puppy in his arms.

"I'll fucking kill you," Rickon is snarling, when Dany gets within earshot. She runs a little faster.

"It's my fucking dog," the man spits out. He lunges at Rickon and the red-head grabs the collar of his shirt to hold him back.

Drogo cracks his knuckles menacingly.

"Not anymore," Rickon says.

The man puffs up his chest. "You can't do that."

"Gentlemen," Dany says, trying to catch her breath as she reaches the group. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Your delinquent employee is stealing my dog!" The man yells. Dany probably should remember his name. 

He has the collar of his polo shirt popped. That's never a good sign.

"He's abusing the dog," Rickon says.

The bartender clutches the dog closer to his chest. 

"I saw it," Drogo confirms. "The dog wasn't sitting and he pushed it down so hard he almost broke its back."

The dog whimpers, as if on cue. 

"It's my fucking dog," the man snarls. "I can do what I like."

"Not to a living creature you can't," Dany snaps. "Mr. Stark is not my employee, he is an independent contractor and he is welcome in this store. You, sir, no longer are."

The man is turning a vibrant shade of red. He struggles to get free of the redhead. The bartender shoves the puppy at Dany, who takes it on instinct. It tries to lick her face and she wrinkles her nose. Mammals.

The bartender crosses his arm and looms threateningly over the angry man.

Rickon pulls out his phone and takes a picture of the man. "For Brienne," he tells Dany. Dany nods. 

"Good thinking." She turns her stare on the man. "Are you going to leave, or am I going to need to introduce you to my pet?"

Dany jerks her head toward the side. She's set up a display on reptiles, as an experiment, with her python as the centerpiece.

It's an empty threat — the snake is very well behaved, not to mention it just ate the other day. But Dany is betting the man doesn't know that, and only sees a giant and intimidating animal that could squeeze the life out of him.

The man gulps.

"I want my dog," he says. "I paid for it. It's mine."

"No it's not," Rickon says. The man lunges toward Dany this time and both Rickon and Drogo step in front of her. Drogo's dog even gets up to stand by its master, though that seems to be the limit of effort it’s going to put forth.

The redheaded man is still holding the man's collar, however, and hoists him up until he's dangling above the floor. The man starts turning a little purple, but he’s still lashing out with his feet and fists.

There are a few tense moments where Dany wonders if she's going to need to call the police, but the man finally goes limp and stomps out once the bearded man sets him down. Rickon looks at the assembled group and says they're done for the day, they'll catch up next week.

Dog-rat lady cuddles her pet for a few minutes before slipping it into her fancy handbag. Rickon sighs.

Drogo’s dog sinks back down to the floor and falls asleep, snoring lightly.

Dany thrusts the puppy at Rickon. "I am not taking the dog."

Rickon scratches the dog around the ears. "He's cute."

"He's dinner, if he comes in my house." Dany jerks her head at the python.

"That's really your pet?" The bartender looks like he doesn't believe her.

"Yes, he's mine." Dany stalks over to the cage and urges the python out, draping him over her shoulders where he coils like an unwieldy scarf. 

Drogo comes closer, leaving his sleeping dog, to gently stroke his finger along the python. Very close, he smells a little musky, with some sweet soap smell Dany can’t place. 

“That’s just not right.” The redheaded man watches the two of them with the snake, shaking his head. Eventually he introduces himself as Tormund, and the bartender grunts out a greeting and Sandor, which Dany presumes is his name. 

“I don’t need a puppy,” Rickon says. 

“Sure you do,” Tormund says. He grins, broadly. “Look at the little guy, he’s just a cute puppers.”

 _Pupper_ , Dany mouths, and Drogo smirks at her. She supposes the dog is cute enough, white with some brown splotches and brown ears. It starts chewing lightly on Rickon’s arm.

“What’s this one’s name?” Drogo asks, voice low and close enough to send a surge of desire through Dany.

“I don’t name most of them,” she says. “My first babies are named, but there’s something so wild about most of the ones I rescue, it doesn’t feel right. Like I’d be trying to tame them.” 

The python starts slithering its way over to Drogo, tongue flicking curiously at him as it winds around his muscled shoulders. Dany tries not to be jealous. 

“Well, I ain’t taking the dog,” Sandor says, looking around at the group. Tormund is still grinning like a loon while Rickon coos at the puppy. Sandor shakes his head before gathering his dog, who has been running around in circles while the humans have been distracted, and stomps out.

“Snickers,” Tormund says suddenly.

“What?’ Dany furrows her brow.

“The snake, you should name him Snickers.” Tormund grins even wider, somehow. “Alliteration.” 

“Absolutely not.” Dany strokes the python’s head in consolation. “That’s humiliating.” 

Drogo seems to be enjoying the snake, tipping his head to one side and murmuring to it in a language Dany can’t place.

“It’s _funny_ ,” Tormund says. “Isn’t it, Crusher?” He scoops up the little white dog, which is dwarfed by his large hands. Crusher yips and licks Tormund’s nose.

Dany scowls, but Tormund just laughs heartily before meandering out. 

“Gezri,” Drogo says, suddenly. He’s staring at Dany with an intensity that makes it a little difficult to breathe.

“Say what?”

“Gezri,” Drogo says again. “It means snake, in Dothrak.” Dany shakes her head a little, hoping her confusion isn’t too obvious. 

“My people,” Drogo says, but he doesn’t sound like he’s offended.

“Gezri,” Dany repeats. From the smirk on Drogo’s face, she hasn’t got it quite right, but it certainly sounds better than saddling such a magnificent creature with some human name. She reaches up to stroke the python, perhaps overshooting a bit and also running her fingers along Drogo’s very nicely muscled shoulder. 

Rickon clears his throat loudly and Dany jumps. Drogo smirks more. 

“So,” Rickon says. “What do we do with the dog?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is going to get the dog? I don't actually know yet, lol. But it's definitely not going back to the shelter or the mean owner. So for now, Rickon has acquired another dog. Oops?
> 
> I've always wondered about purse dogs. Mostly, don't they pee on things? Or is it just cats that angry pee when they're in carriers? Rickon does not approve of purse dogs. They are _dogs_ , they have legs.
> 
> The man is clearly never going to be allowed to adopt an animal in this town. 
> 
> I imagine the rescued dog is a mix with some Brittany Spaniel. Purse Dog is a Chinese Crested. Tormund's dog is a mutt with a heavy dose of Havanese and maybe some Bichon Frise. Drogo has a rescued Bernese Mountain Dog. 
> 
> I imagine the Dothraki as a small group of people, somewhat similar to the Gullah people of the South, that have developed a distinctive identity and culture over time. Although perhaps more mixed in terms of ethnic heritage, given the show's casting directives seemed to be ... interesting. Ahem. ANYWAY. To make the idea work in a modern setting, this is where I'm going.


	65. The Rest Is Still Unwritten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne sees her therapist and almost walks out.

The second she sees her therapist, Brienne almost walks out.

Ellaria Sand hadn't sounded exceptional over the phone, but in person she's drop dead gorgeous, moving with the easy confidence of someone who's at home in their body. 

There is no way a woman like that can possibly understand what it's like to be Brienne, but Ellaria has already seen Brienne in the waiting room, smiling warmly and welcoming her in. Brienne has too much ingrained politeness to run away like she wants to.

The office isn't quite what Brienne expects. Although she's not really sure _what_ she expects. There are several comfortable armchairs, a desk along one wall, plus a child size table and basket of toys. The walls are painted a muted blue color and decorated with photographs of beaches and the ocean. 

As they step inside, Ellaria steps on a button and starts a white noise machine going outside the door.

"In case my next client arrives early," she explains. "I try to space it out so people have privacy, but this way they can't overhear even if they do come while you're still in session."

"So, Brienne, what brings you here today?"

It's probably the simplest question Ellaria could ask but Brienne finds herself at a loss to explain. She finally settles on "My friends suggested it." 

Ellaria doesn't seem terribly phased. "And why did they do that?"

Brienne sighs. "I'm not very good at trusting people. Men. And I guess they think I should be." 

Ellaria continues to ask questions, each one focusing on an element of Brienne's previous answer. It feels like being pricked with a thousand tiny knives, as Brienne struggles to put words to what should be obvious. 

"I mean look at me," Brienne finally says, after Ellaria has asked her to explain what gesturing at herself is meant to convey. "I'm hideous. Why would any man want to have anything to do with me, except to be cruel?"

They don't actually solve anything by the time the session is over, and Brienne thinks she might feel worse than she did when she went in. Ellaria (and later Sansa) assures her that's normal, and these kind of issues take time. But Brienne isn't sure there's any point in bringing up things that hurt so much.

Holding everything in doesn't help, you know," Ellaria says when Brienne brings that up.

"It helps me not feel bad," Brienne mutters. She's aware she sounds like a sulky child. 

"But it also prevents you from living your best life," Ellaria says. Brienne doesn't think there's anything _that_ terribly wrong with her life.

Sure, she's not in a relationship, and she's not going to attract men, but she has friends. She has a job. She has a father who loves her. Plenty of people have it worse. Which, according to Ellaria, does not excuse Brienne from taking steps to improve her life. 

Brienne isn't sure if therapy is supposed to be so annoying.

It doesn't help that Sansa is all in, and dedicating herself to supporting Brienne in every way possible. When Brienne is grumbling about Ellaria's homework of repeating stupid positive things at herself in the mirror each morning -- as if that's going to do anything about how she actually looks -- Sansa declare that she'll do it with Brienne in support. And then shows up with hand-lettered and decorated pieces of paper with different affirmations for them to tape on their respective bathroom mirrors. And she checks to see if Brienne has followed through.

Asha laughs hysterically and tells them both to have fun. 

Trying to look her reflection in the eye and say "I am beautiful" still makes Brienne want to put her fist through the glass, even after several weeks.

"You have 37 years of negative self-talk, it's not going to go away immediately," Ellaria tells her, as calm as ever.

Brienne is also beginning to think Sansa and Ellaria are in cahoots somehow, because Sansa is more enthusiastic than Brienne is about the many homework assignments. And when Brienne argues, repeats eerily similar points to the ones Ellaria makes.

"It's fine," Brienne says, looking around her apartment. "Nothing's broken, I have what I need."

"But is fine _enough_?" Sansa looks around the space. "Don't you deserve a space that you love? That's better than fine?"

"What difference does it make?" It's an apartment. It's a place to eat and sleep and read or watch TV. 

"Imagine what it would be like to wake up and see a place that makes you smile and feel happy just to see it," Sansa says, in an alarming echo of Ellaria.

Which is how Brienne finds herself being dragged into a far too long conversation about color theory and interior design with Sansa, Margaery, and Margaery's brother Loras. 

"I don't know, I mean. It's a bed, it needs to be big enough to sleep on and reasonably comfortable. A couch is to sit on." Brienne shrugs. "What it looks like isn't that important."

Loras makes a noise like he's been stabbed. Brienne feels a headache building.

Ellaria, in her next session, seems to side with Loras. 

"I don't see why it matters," Brienne says, again. It seems to be something she says a lot in these sessions. "What does this have to do with me being ugly, anyway?"

"Do you think," Ellaria asks, tapping her pen against her normal-sized, perfectly lipsticked lip. "That believing you're ugly makes you feel like you don't deserve a nice space?"

Then Ellaria suggests exploring what Brienne might enjoy in a living space, beyond just the practical necessities. Which inspires Sansa to lead some sort of strange house-tour like field trip with people she and Brienne know. 

Sansa, as it turns out, knows a lot of people and Brienne feels herself starting to get exhausted before they even begin, as Sansa bounces into the shelter one day with a list of people, addresses, and a large day planner.

There are some things that are easy enough to make a determination on. Asha's decor can hardly be called that, it's barely more cohesive than Brienne's, but it features a lot of black, skulls, and marijuana leaves (though Asha says those are mostly Theon's) and makes both Sansa and Brienne grimace.

Similarly, Loras' sleek, modern condo feels cold and unwelcoming. It's clearly very nice, filled with expensive furnishings and lots of art. But Brienne doesn't understand the abstract paintings on the walls, or the strangely shaped sculptures that are interspersed through the area. Not to mention the sheer amount of white used on the walls and furnishings would drive her insane. And get destroyed by the cats in short order. Frankly, the most appealing thing at Loras' is his boyfriend, Renly, who is so handsome that Brienne starts stumbling over her words. 

Other homes make it more difficult for her to identify her feelings, something Ellaria insists is a good thing to sit with and work through. 

There's Val's cabin, with it's rustic yet carefully crafted interior made of as many natural materials as possible, polished wood and stone with wool blankets and cotton quilts. Plus the antiques Val has salvaged and restored, the old clawfoot tub and copper kettle shining on the woodstove. Or her father's comfortingly familiar house, with lots of blue and nature inspired decor and a kitchen that is overflowing with food and cookware.

Margaery's condo is bursting with color, every one in the rainbow. From the paint and decor and from the piles of fabric that seem to occupy much of the space. There's a lot of art and everything is clearly expensive. It's not as cold as Loras' place, but it's also not as cozy as Sansa's. Sansa has less color than Margaery, and where Margaery has fabric everywhere, Sansa has yarn. But the soothing neutrals on Sansa’s walls are balanced with colorful curtains and furniture. And Sansa's walls are cluttered with family photos instead of art. 

Sansa even drags Brienne to see Sansa's older brother's apartment, declaring the rest of her siblings hopeless. Robb has a very bachelor type apartment, but in a grown up kind of way, with leather and dark colors and not much on the walls. Robb, who seems to be in the midst of some internal crisis, hardly registers they're there. His place is a stark difference to Shireen's studio. Brienne has been there before, of course, but this time she looks around more. At the books and plants that take up many surfaces, the little white lights and the pink and grey color scheme that is far too delicate for someone big and hulking like Brienne.

Then Shireen gets wind of it, she insists on introducing Brienne and Sansa to her friend Missandei, and taking them over. Brienne is horribly, horribly embarrassed by the entire endeavor but apparently "redecorating" is some sort of magic girl code that Brienne never mastered, and Missy happily opens her house and shows everyone around. Missy's place is as colorful as Margaery's but in a more laid back kind of way, somehow, with a lot of art and things from other countries and photographs Missandei says she’s taken on her travels. A lot of the doors are missing in Missandei’s place, replaced with strings of beads or fabric with block printed designs. 

Missandei insists on calling her maybe-boyfriend Grey and they all head to his place, which is cluttered enough to give Brienne a headache. There’s a ton of art in his place too, paintings and photographs, and instead of a dining room, he has a makeshift ceramics studio. Which is where they find him, arms covered with clay as he works something on a wheel. Missandei smiles at him like seeing him like this is the best, and doesn’t even say anything when he gets bits of clay on her clearly carefully planned outfit as he hugs her hello.

They wind up at Daenerys’s place last, and honestly Brienne couldn’t tell you how it happened, but all five of them troop over (Grey cleans up first, though he still has a smear of clay on his cheek) and Daenerys welcomes them all in. Sansa takes several steps back when she sees the cobra, but Shireen is clearly fascinated. Grey, on the other hand, is clearly taken with the tortoise, which Brienne cannot fault him for at all. 

Surprisingly, Dany’s house is very simply furnished outside of the reptile area. Just a few basic pieces of furniture, clearly well-made but not fancy. A few framed photos are displayed, mostly of Daenerys with groups of people that look like they’re from field work, judging by the amount of khaki and number of safari hats. Dany shrugs and says she’d rather focus on her babies, which makes Sansa sigh and mutter something about hopeless causes. 

None of it makes Brienne feel any less like a hulking, oafish mistake of a woman but Ellaria sighs and somehow extricates a promise that Brienne will just try taking her homework seriously for a while.

“Three months,” Ellaria says, peering at Brienne through wire-rimmed glasses that somehow look like the height of style on her beautiful face. “Give it three months, and then if it’s not working, we’ll let it go and I’ll come up with a new plan.”

“Fine,” Brienne says. Sansa is going to be thrilled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Meg for her beta skills and catching all my typos and spots where I changed my mind halfway through a sentence. 
> 
> If you're thinking, this seems like an excuse to write interior design porn ... you are absolutely correct! I really wanted to get into a bunch of living spaces for characters and so here we are. 
> 
> My style leans toward Margaery or Missy — I am all about COLOR. So far my house has a red and (eventually) gold dining room, red and blue kitchen, teal craft room with orange and yellow, yellow living room with pink and green, and Ravenclaw office with blue and bronze. AND THERE WILL BE MORE COLOR. ALL THE COLOR. IT SHOULD LOOK LIKE A CARNIVAL EXPLODED UP IN HERE. Ahem.
> 
> Ellaria is a very good therapist, really, but she makes Brienne nervous just looking the way she does. The affirmation thing is based on a real thing my best friend did with me when I was in therapy. With mixed results. Repeating I am patient in a mirror has not made me any less impatient, alas. 
> 
> Having a nice space DOES make a difference, even when you are a mildly hoarding trash goblin like me, so hey! Learning! Hope we're all coping okay — I've been torn on spacing finished chapters out, to give me time to write and maintain a queue, and posting them quickly. I've been leaning toward the later lately, because I think we can all use some fic. I know I can. 
> 
> Anyway, if you're up for it, drop a line in the comments with which characters decor resonates with you!


	66. Her Hair Is Always A Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya doesn't know why Gendry can't wait until it's warmer to have his archery lesson.

Arya doesn't know why Gendry can't wait until spring for archery lessons but for some reason he's insistent on having his first lesson as soon as possible.

Arya had tried to plead work, but Gendry had come by the store to ask her. Syrio had been eavesdropping and gleefully informed Gendry that of course Arya could have that day off, he'd be delighted to man the store. 

Arya doesn't know what Syrio's angling at, but she doesn't like it.

It's bad enough that Sansa and her mother have gotten over their weird, awkward, semi-not-speaking thing from the Christmas party and are now trying their hardest to encourage some grand romance. Arya can't tell her mother it was all fake, of course, but Sansa knows and still keeps encouraging Cat.

Because Sansa is horrible.

And because Arya, in a terrible moment of weakness (and vodka) told her about the kiss after the party, and Sansa is convinced that it all Means Something™️.

Arya thinks it just means Gendry was bored and thinks messing with her is funny. 

At any rate, she decides to use the outdoor range at the Gift to get back at Gendry and his sneaky plan-making. Sure it's cold, but Arya can layer up and pull on some fingerless gloves. And her new hat, because Sansa isn't always a terrible sister and picked a color and design Arya really likes. 

Gendry is hilariously bad at archery. Hilariously.

Arya spends a good twenty minutes after his first attempt bent double laughing, which he does not appear to appreciate. Which is stupid. What did he expect out of this?

Unfortunately, Arya seems to have underestimated the cold. By a fairly dramatic degree. Probably because she's used to moving around outside, not standing at the end of the range trying to explain aiming to Gendry when she's too short to see the same things he does. 

it's a little obnoxious how much draw he can handle right away. 

It's also obnoxious how chatty he is, like he's somehow interested in all the things Arya has to say. Gendry wants to ask about her job and what she does and how she learned archery and it's just weird. 

Gendry laughs even more when Arya starts shivering and messing up her own aim.

"You're the one who insisted we come out here!" Arya reminds him. She narrows her eyes. "Actually, you know what? Give me your hoodie."

"What?" 

"Give. Me. Your. Hoodie." Arya makes grabby hands toward the garment, which she can tell Gendry is wearing even with a jacket over top.

"It's my hoodie," Gendry says. "Maybe you should have dressed warmer."

Arya grumbles at him.

"Did you not go to kindergarten?" Arya asks. "Sharing is caring. Now give me the hoodie!" 

She almost stomps her foot for emphasis, but realizes Gendry would have far too much fun mocking that and settles for glaring at him until he caves.

It doesn't take as long as she suspects.

Just like the last time she borrowed it, Gendry's hoodie is far too big. But that just means it fits over the sweater Arya already has on, and gives some extra length her jacket doesn't. It smells like oil and something citrus-y spicy. His soap, maybe.

At least it means Arya's warmer and it means Gendry feels the cold sooner and concedes to leaving the range. Finally. He even helps her carry the gear back and stow it in her car, but that's when things get weird. 

Gendry doesn't just head to his car and drive off. Instead, he leans over Arya, one hand on the door frame and gets a weird look on his face.

“I had fun,” Gendry says, and his voice is weird and low and rumbly in a way Arya feels down to her toes. Then he’s ducking down and kissing her again. Like before, except he keeps kissing her and somehow Arya keeps kissing back.

It’s .... nice, even when Gendry coaxes her mouth open and curls his tongue against hers. Definitely better than the time Lommy decided he should practice french kissing on Arya without even asking first. She almost forgets to be confused about why Gendry is bothering, until he makes a little pained noise and breaks away.

“Did I do it wrong?” Arya blurts out, completely blowing her cool exterior. 

Gendry grins at her, tiny crinkles forming at the corner of his eyes.

“No, you’re just too short,” he says. Arya squawks in outrage, but Gendry ignores it as he picks her up, dodging the kick she aims at his knee, and settles her on the trunk of her car. 

“Better,” Gendry says, tugging her forward until she’s balanced on the edge and he can stand between her legs and kiss her again. 

Arya loses track of how long they stay like that. It’s not so cold with Gendry’s arms wrapped around her, pressing her close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest. She tries not to sigh or let out pathetic little needy noises, but she thinks she fails, especially when she can feel Gendry grinning against her mouth. 

“Stop it,” Arya mutters, when Gendry moves to kiss her jaw, and she’s left staring at the side of his face, blurry from being so close, and wondering what is going on.

Gendry does, although he looks like he isn’t terribly thrilled about it. 

“It’s cold,” Arya says, instead of asking him why he keeps kissing her or what he’s doing hanging out with her or why he’s even talking to her after he’s seen her next to girls like Sansa and Ygritte. 

“All right, your highness,” Gendry says. “Can’t let you freeze.”

Arya glares at him and ignores the hand he offers because she is perfectly capable of jumping down off a trunk, even if her knees feel a little wobbly, and she’s definitely not going to dignify that remark with an actual response.

It isn’t until she’s halfway home that Arya realizes she hadn’t given Gendry back his sweatshirt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Arya, resisting all this tooth and nail. In our collection of Self Esteem Issues, she clearly opts for stubborn anger over Brienne's resigned practicality or Shireen's refusal to be anything but herself. I also think Arya suffers a bit from middle child issues — Robb and Sansa were the golden, perfect children, Bran had medical issues, Rickon was a hellion and although Arya was rebellious, it didn't quite rise to the level to really get a lot of attention.
> 
> And then there comes Gendry, who thinks she's great and wants to know all about her and kiss her and Arya is VERY confused


	67. Someday I'll Be Big Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommen has a conversation with his teacher.

Supervising recess is not Missy’s favorite part of the day. Oh, being outside is nice, but this year’s class is exceptionally rambunctious and there’s a lot more screaming than Missy would like.

Maybe because she only has three girls in the class this year and as much as she hates to stereotype based on gender, girls do tend to be quieter

Largely because of socialization, not any particular gender essential traits, of course, but that doesn’t mean much when there are eight children screaming at the top of their tiny lungs.

“Stop running,” Missy shouts at the pack of boys, who slow down slightly for a few steps, then immediately begin galloping around the yard again. She’s so busy trying to figure out if they’re actually at risk of getting hurt or if she should just let it go, she almost trips over a child huddled on the ground by the abandoned swings. 

Once she catches herself in an incredibly graceless manner, Missy realizes it’s Tommen Bartheon.

“I’m so sorry Tommen,” Missy says, sinking to a crouch next to the boy. “I wasn’t looking where I was walking.”

“It’s okay,” Tommen says, in a tiny voice. He doesn’t look up from the ground, where he’s tracing abstract designs in the dirt with a stick. 

“No, it’s not.” Missy says a silent apology to her jeans and settles next to him. “Is everything okay?”

She’d been thrilled to return from Christmas break and find Tommen speaking — not much, but still, he’ll whisper answers when she calls on him and return her greetings. 

Tommen shrugs. 

Missy waits a few minutes to see if he’ll say anything more, and then ventures another question. “Do you need quiet time? I know sometimes it can get loud out here.”

Aric Fossoway bellows something at Androw Frey, loud enough for Missy to wince and Septa Mordane to peer out her classroom window and shake her head disapprovingly. 

“Nobody likes to play with me,” Tommen says in a matter-of-fact sort of way. “I’m too weird.”

“What makes you say that?” Missy asks, rather than deny it. She has noticed the other kids don’t seem to have much interest in associating with Tommen, though she’s been hoping that will start to change now that he’s speaking again.

“They said so.” Tommen pokes at the dirt some more. “Myrcy thinks it, too. She says all the stuff Uncle Jaime and me want to do is stupid.”

“Myrcella is a teenager,” Missy says. “Teenagers tend to think everything is stupid, even when it isn’t true. I know she loves you.”

Tommen shrugs. “They think I’m weird. Cause I don’t wanna play fights and stuff, but I’m a boy so I’m not ‘sposed to play dolls with the girls.”

Missy is pretty sure Lyanna, Melessa and Zia are actually playing some elaborate game of make-believe where they are top-secret spies who are also magic, and are trying to save the world from an evil wizard. But that information doesn’t seem terribly helpful at the moment. 

“Well, what would you like to do?”

“Play with my kittens,” Tommen says. “But they can’t come to school.” 

“No,” Missy agrees, thinking about the havoc a kitten would wreak on her already chaotic classroom. “I don’t think kittens enjoy school very much.” 

“I like to draw and stuff.” Tommen scuffs the lines he’s traced in the dirt away with the heel of his hand, then starts again with his stick. “But that’s for girls.”

“Mr. Nudho isn’t a girl,” Missy points out. “He likes to draw.” 

A hint of a smile crosses Tommen’s face. “But he’s cool. And he’s strong and stuff.”

Missy forces her brain to stay on her conversation with Tommen, and not drift to Grey’s frankly amazing biceps. 

“I bet people didn’t always think Mr. Nudho was cool,” Missy says. “And you want to know a secret?”

Tommen nods, wide-eyed.

Missy leans over, lowering her voice a little. 

“The most interesting grown ups I know are the ones who people thought were weird kids,” Missy says. 

Tommen seems to consider it for a minute. 

“Like Uncle Tyrion,” he finally says. Missy doesn’t really know Tyrion Lannister, but she’s certain boring is the last word anyone would use to describe the man, so she nods.

“But what am I supposed to do now?” Tommen’s face falls again. “I tried to be like the other boys but I don’t like it and they made fun of me anyway. And then I got hurt.”

He pulls at his jeans, and Missy notices a stain on the front of one knee that looks like it could be either dirt or blood. 

“Be you,” Missy finally says. “No one else can. And if you’re being yourself, other people will see it and you’ll find the ones who will like you for exactly who you are.” 

Tommen looks doubtful. “Like who?”

“I don’t know yet,” Missy says, truthfully. “But you’re a great kid, Tommen, and I know other people will see that.”

Tommen just shrugs again.

“Now,” Missy says. “Why don’t we go inside and take a look at that knee? I bet I can dig up a Star Wars band-aid.” 

“With BB-8?” “Sure,” Missy says. She holds out her hand and Tommen takes it as they get to their feet. Shireen’s class is due to come out for their recess and five extra minutes for her kids won’t hurt while she gets Tommen checked out. Shireen will watch both classes as long as Missy promises to buy her an extra cocktail when they have their girl’s night this week. 

And maybe she’ll talk to Grey about starting an art club. It would make it easier for some of the quieter kids to find friends, and if Missy volunteers to help out, well … she’s doing it for the students, but the company surely won’t hurt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Tommen. I have SUCH a soft spot for Tommen. Poor kid. It will get better for him, though! 
> 
> Missy definitely agrees that Mr. Nudho is both cool and strong, lol.


	68. Supper's On The Stove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Talisa comes for family dinner, absolutely everyone knows what's going on.

By the time family dinner rolls around, absolutely everyone knows what's going on with Robb and Talisa. 

Robb's already had one shrieking phone call from Sansa — he still can't tell if it was from rage or excitement — and a five minute voicemail that was just Rickon laughing. 

His mother has been stress cooking, so there's more food than is necessary, even with thirteen people. Because Jon and Sam and Theon are always at dinner, but Margaery has decided to come for the first time and Benjen can't miss the drama so he's showing up too. Asha rambles in too, at some point, smirking at Robb and cuffing Theon gently on the back of the head in greeting.

Robb isn't sure if Sansa is bringing her girlfriend to take the heat off of him, or because she knows it will take the heat off of _her_.

It smells amazing, at least, because Cat has been channeling all her feelings into the kitchen, and apparently Robb's mother has a lot of feelings right now. She made beef bourguignon, which is always her impress company meal, but then panicked that someone might be vegetarian (no one is vegetarian) and made mushroom stroganoff as well, plus a choice of mashed potatoes or egg noodles for the starch and fresh baked rolls. Last Robb checked, she was frantically making lemon garlic green beans because she was worried the roast brussels sprouts wouldn't be enough.

Robb hasn't even asked about desserts. He's afraid of the answer.

Robb's father seems to be dealing by mixing cocktails for everyone who wants one, and muddling the fruit for Bran's Old Fashioned much harder than is strictly necessary. 

Sansa tries to go into the kitchen and offer to help as usual, but backs out quickly with a look of fear on her face.

"I think Mom's lost it," she says, ignoring several open seats and perching on Margaery's lap. 

Margaery offers a sip of her gimlet, which makes Sansa grimace, and then resumes her conversation with Bran about ... Robb has no idea, actually. Margaery has already managed to win his father's approval, mostly by having an in depth discussion about classic cocktails. 

Robb almost jumps out of his skin when the doorbell rings again, and nearly trips over his own feet to get to the door before any of his family members can do it. Talisa is the only person left who'd bother with such a thing, rather than just walking in. Invited or not.

"First let me say I'm sorry," Robb says, taking Talisa's coat. 

Talisa gives him an alarmed look. "They hate me already?"

"Nobody hates you," Robb says hastily. "There's just a ... my family are a nosy bunch of gossips and they're all here."

Everyone is on their best behavior as Robb introduces Talisa. Even Theon, though he's probably just stoned. Asha grins like a shark about to attack and Margaery and Sansa are still in the too-handsy-for-polite-company phase of their relationship, but it's fine. Mostly. Even when Cat falters visibly before shaking Talisa's hand and inviting everyone to the table.

Robb almost starts to relax, which is incredibly stupid, because the good behavior lasts exactly as long as it takes for everyone to fill their plates.

"I would just like to point out," Rickon says, sipping his beer. "That despite your predictions, I'm not the one who got someone knocked up out of wedlock."

"Rickon!" Cat hisses, which has exactly zero effect.

"Or me," Jon adds. "All the way into my thirties, and baby-free."

Robb groans.

"I think I'd like a baby some day," Sam says. He looks reflective. "I bet Gilly likes babies."

"Thank you, Sam," Robb says. "How is Gilly?"

"Lesbianism has a lot of great things to offer," Asha says before Sam can answer. She leans across the table, smirking at Talisa. "In case you're wondering, no unexpected pregnancies is one of them."

Margaery fist bumps Asha behind Sansa's back as Cat chastises everyone for their behavior.

"Gilly's great," Sam says, starry-eyed. "She's trying some new pie recipes lately, for spring."

"I do love her bakery," Talisa says, having correctly identified Sam as the most sane person for dinner conversation.

Theon is inhaling his food like there's no more coming, and Arya yanks the serving dish of mashed potatoes out of his reach.

"I think it's weird," Arya announces. "Babies, I mean. Like, it's a thing just ... growing inside you. Like a parasite."

"Arya!" Sansa says.

"You were a parasite once," Ned says mildly. 

"It is a little strange," Talisa tells Arya. "Especially since nobody else can tell yet, but I know she's there."

"You think it's a girl?" Bran asks.

"I don't know." Talisa takes another bite of dinner, her appetite apparently unaffected by the insanity of Robb's family. "But I don't like using he as the default."

"Feminism," Arya says sagely.

"I think it's exciting," Sansa says. "I'm looking forward to being an aunt."

From the startled look on Talisa's face, Robb can tell it hasn't occurred to her that she won't just be getting Robb's involvement as a father, but his entire insane, overly intrusive, and excessively large family.

"Enjoy the early stages while you can," Cat recommends. "You'll feel like a human beach ball soon enough. Although, it depends on how you carry. Has your mother said how it was for her?"

"She died a few years ago." Talisa looks down at her plate and Robb can practically see his mother thawing at the words.

"Aren't you worried about giving birth?" Arya wrinkles her nose. "That's got to be terrifying."

"Arya!" Sansa says, again.

"I haven't really thought that far ahead," Talisa said. Then Ned interrupts whatever Arya is going to say next to ask Talisa what she does.

"I'm a pharmacy tech right now, but I'm taking the MCATs in a few months and I plan on going to medical school." Talisa meets Ned's eyes as she answers.

Benjen makes a mildly approving noise from where he’s been silently observing everyone with a smirk on his face.

"Well, I suppose the baby will change that," Cat says. 

"No." Talisa sets her jaw. "No, it won't. I'm due in July, and I was already planning on applying for admission next spring. So she'd be a year old by the time I started."

"Oh, but they grow up so fast," Cat says. She looks around the table. "You'll miss the days they were small."

"And quiet," Ned adds. 

"Rickon was never quiet." Robb remembers it all very clearly. "Not until he was a teenager."

"Just because I'm going to be a mother doesn't mean giving up on my dreams. Plenty of women work full time or go to school and raise children. Especially when they have a father who will pull his weight." Talisa is definitely giving Robb a very pointed look as she says that.

"Which I will, absolutely." Robb nods so much he probably looks like a bobble-head. Benjen almost chokes on his green beans in an effort not to laugh.

"Do you have colors you like?" Sansa is apparently uninterested in the practicalities of child raising when you're not a couple. "I should get started knitting. Oh, think of all the little sweaters and booties!"

Sansa is starting to get a dreamy, wistful look in her eyes. Robb wonders if Margaery knows what she's in for. Sansa is definitely going to get baby fever after this. She'd been seven when Rickon was born and absolutely delighted to have a living baby doll. And with the rest of them running around, Cat had been happy to allow her to help.

Which is why there are more than a few pictures of infant Rickon dressed in Sansa and Arya’s old, frilly baby dresses, propped up on cushions for a fancy tea party. Robb’s pretty sure Rickon thinks he destroyed them all as a teen but Robb knows for a fact some survived.

“Robb’s gonna be a dad,” Theon says. He shakes his head. “Poor kid.” 

Robb knows he should be offended but it’s been so long since Theon’s been able to toss a sarcastic barb the way he used to without cringing, that Robb just grins at him. 

They manage to get through the rest of dinner without too much offense, though Cat keeps talking about the importance of being there for the first years of a child’s life while Talisa grits her teeth and Arya keeps muttering about the weirdness of pregnancy. Margaery and Sansa offer to clear the table, and Robb trails awkwardly after Talisa and his mother, who has grabbed Talisa by the arm as they head toward the living room for the break between dinner and dessert.

Robb probably should have warned Talisa that Stark family dinners tend to be multi-hour endeavors.

“I agree that having parental involvement is very important for early development,” Talisa is saying when Robb tunes back in. “I just disagree that it has to come entirely from the mother. Certainly Robb is capable of providing just as involved parenting.”

“Well, you know men.” Cat rolls her eyes. “Bless them, Ned did always love spending time with the kids, but if I’d left him in charge, they’d be running around with their clothes on backwards and their hair uncombed half the time.”

Talisa shrugs. “Messy hair and clothes are hardly the worst that could happen.”

Cat purses her lips. Ned looks over at Talisa and gives a little nod. Robb sighs. 

“And the food,” Cat continues. Robb feels the urge to facepalm. “I left for a weekend once, with a whole fridge of pre-made meals with detailed instructions and Ned still managed to wind up making hamburger helper, somehow.”

Robb’s father mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “I _like_ hamburger helper” while Talisa rolls her eyes.

“Robb’s a grown man. I assume he doesn’t come here for every meal and is quite capable of feeding himself. Adding a child shouldn’t be too difficult.” 

“I can feed myself just fine,” Robb interjects. Okay, it’s not nearly as fancy as his mother’s food, but it’s food and it’s fine and it’s reasonably well-balanced and healthy. 

Cat, realizing the conversation is not going her way, decides it’s time for dessert. Arya, who has been watching the interplay, looks over at Talisa.

“I mean this in a completely non-lesbian and platonic way, but I think I love you,” Arya says. She’s been fighting with Cat on gender roles practically since birth. 

“Your mother means well,” Ned says, in the tired voice of a man who’s said it thousands of times before. “She was just raised with different expectations, and she has a hard time letting go of them.”

“Sexist expectations,” Bran says. 

“And yet we had to know how to do all the kitchen chores too,” Jon says. 

“Because you’re humans and you need to be able to clothe and feed and clean up after yourself,” Ned says. “Regardless of what you have between your legs.”

Any argument they might have to that — and really, none of them do, because it’s not like their father is wrong — is cut off by a startled yelp from the direction of the kitchen, and then Cat is backing back through the dining room at high speed. 

“Mom?” Rickon asks, after a minute of Cat sitting still, hand clutched to her mouth, an unusual flush to her face. 

“I think Sansa and her girlfriend need a few more minutes to finish cleaning up,” Cat says, in a strangled voice. “And Ned, tomorrow we need to clean out and sterilize the pantry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Talisa. Poor Robb. This is the first of three chapters set around this Stark dinner, because I love my crazy, messy, probably-unrealistic Stark family. 
> 
> The [lemon garlic green beans](https://shewearsmanyhats.com/garlic-lemon-green-beans) sound good. I now want to make [mushroom stroganoff](https://www.gimmesomeoven.com/mushroom-stroganoff/) this week. I've always wanted to try [beef bourguignon](https://cafedelites.com/beef-bourguignon/) but it's so fuss I am not sure if I ever will. I imagine Robb cooks a bit like me — prefers recipes with eight or fewer ingredients and minimal steps. 
> 
> I'm not sure which fic it was that gave me the trope of Stark children getting caught having sex in inappropriate places but it cracks me up and so here we are.


	69. Find Me A Find, Catch Me A Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa can tell Robb didn't prepare Talisa for dinner. But maybe she'll manage to survive the Starks anyway.

Sansa almost feels bad for Talisa. It’s clear Robb hasn’t warned her about family dinner and the poor girl is sending longing looks after Theon and Asha as they leave. 

It isn’t long before their parents finish their cake (a record four options this dinner: coconut, Tennessee Jam, pear upside down or chocolate with almond buttercream) and head upstairs, probably hastened by Cat’s inability to look directly at Sansa or Margaery. 

Having sex in the pantry probably wasn’t one of Sansa’s better ideas, but Margaery just looked so very adorable and it was so very convenient.

Rickon can’t stop laughing after Cat and Ned go to their bedroom or their office or wherever they go when they get tired of their squabbling adult children.

“I cannot believe I’m the best behaved child right now,” Rickon says. 

“Hey,” Bran objects. “We’re at least tied.”

Rickon considers it. “Yeah, okay.”

“I can’t believe you had sex in the pantry, that’s disgusting,” Arya says. Honestly, you’d think having a boyfriend would get her to lighten up.

“Oh, like we’re the first,” Sansa says. “Mom’s a hypocrite if she acts scandalized, as if I haven’t caught her and Dad in there.”

Arya claps her hands over her ears and Rickon looks vaguely nauseated. 

“I’m pretty sure Rickon was conceived in that pantry,” Robb says thoughtfully. “That was when Bran had nightmares and they couldn’t lock the bedroom door or he’d scream for hours.” 

“That or the study,” Jon says. “I never went looking for an encyclopedia after nine at night again.”

“It’s nice that your parents have such a loving relationship,” Talisa says.

“It’s nicer when they lock the doors.” Bran shudders. “But we’re not here to talk about our parents overly active sex life, please.” 

“Or their inability to confine it to a bedroom,” Arya grumbles.

Margaery looks reflective. “Oh, so that’s where Sansa gets it.” 

“Like I’m the only one,” Sansa snaps, because Bran is opening his mouth to say something that’s just going to be snarky. “Rickon’s out there having sex in apartment hallways.”

“It wasn’t sex,” Rickon says. “Our clothes were on.” 

He looks utterly unashamed about it, too. 

“Use condoms,” Sam says, and then looks embarrassed when Jon reaches over to high-five him. He hasn’t quite gotten used to being included in these conversations, or the ease with which they all push each other’s buttons. Then again, Sam’s family has probably said a lot worse things to each other, and actually meant them.

“We used condoms,” Robb says. “Things happen, okay? Can we all stop judging my life?”

“No,” everyone but Talisa says in unison. 

“Or we can not talk about sex at all,” Arya says. “Because I really don’t need mental images of my family that way.”

“No,” everyone says again, this time including Talisa. 

She might just make it if she keeps that kind of backbone. 

“Just because Sansa’s determined to match-make everyone into happy couples does not mean we have to go along with it.” Arya folds her arms and glares. 

“Oh good, you first.” Sansa smiles at her little sister. “How is Gendry these days?”

“Gendry the mechanic?” Talisa looks intrigued. “Do his arms feel as good as they look? I’ve wondered.” 

“I told you all, we’re not dating, it was just to get mom off my back.” Arya sighs. “And he … has arms?”

“Which have been wrapped around you,” Bran says. “I saw you by his car near the Northwood trailhead.” 

“I’m teaching him archery, and what were you doing at the trailhead anyway?” 

“That was not archery you were doing.” Bran is smirking now. “Unless there’s a new form of archery involving tongues.” 

Arya turns a shade of red Sansa didn’t know her sister was even capable of. 

“So, really, the arms,” Talisa says, with an intense look on her face. Sansa sees Robb flexing his bicep and frowning out of the corner of her eye. 

“They’re arms, I don’t know, and Bran hasn’t answered my question.” Arya leans back on the sofa. 

“Jojen and Meera have been working with the park to make the trail accessible,” Bran says. “The first part, anyway.”

“Oh, Meera has, has she?” Jon says, drawing it out.

That’s actually a very sweet gesture, and one that someone should have thought of doing years ago. Something the family should have done years ago. Bran has adapted so well to using his chair, Sansa wonders if they’ve all forgotten the things he used to enjoy.

“You’re right, this is fun,” Margaery whispers in Sansa’s ear, as Bran starts arguing with Jon about his interest in Meera and Bran’s insistence that his interest is in Meera as a person and not just wanting to sleep with her. 

Sansa doesn’t understand how liking Meera as a person means Bran can’t also hit on her, but her siblings are almost entirely hopeless when it comes to romance.

Sansa leans over to kiss Margaery, smiling into her mouth. It’s so nice to have someone here. Sansa can’t wait until the whole room is full, all of her siblings with someone they love. And babies now! Well, one baby at least. And Margaery, whose lips taste like cake and gin and are so soft against Sansa’s own. 

Sansa is busy sucking on Margaery’s lower lip, in hopes of getting her to make the half moan, half squeak noise she makes sometimes, when something hits her in the side of the head.

Margaery heaves the throw pillow back at Rickon without missing a beat. 

“Well, we all know how Sansa’s love life is going,” Rickon says dryly. “And Robb’s.”

“You’re just jealous,” Sansa says. 

“No, we really aren’t,” Arya says. 

“I’m a little jealous,” Sam says. “Gilly and I aren’t to that stage yet.”

Sansa has seen Sam and Gilly together. At the rate they’re going, it’s going to be another two years before they manage a first kiss. 

“You could be a little more aggressive,” Sansa says gently. “You need to let Gilly know you like her and want her.” 

“But I don’t want to be rude,” Sam says. “I mean, I hear what you all have to deal with from guys, I don’t want to be one of them.”

“Oh Sam, you couldn’t possibly be,” Margaery says. 

Sam doesn’t look convinced. 

“I’m having sex,” Jon says, unasked. “Great sex. Lots of sex. Athletic and delightful sex.” 

“He threw his back out last week,” Sam offers and Jon groans.

“I told you not to tell anyone!” 

“You should bring Ygritte to dinner next time,” Sansa says and Jon snorts. 

“I’ve barely gotten her to agree we’re seeing each other regularly, she’ll run screaming to beyond the wall.” Jon shakes his head. “Not giving up the amazing, athletic sex for your strange need to see everyone partnered off.”

“I just want us all to be happy,” Sansa says. _Why_ do they all resist it so much? 

“It’s very sweet of you to care so much,” Talisa says. “It must be nice to have siblings to look out for you.” 

Sansa beams. Arya looks like she wants to murder someone. Probably Sansa. 

“Rickon should bring Shireen too,” Sansa decides. She likes Shireen. She’s very sweet. “Mom won’t know what hit her.”

“And that is why I am saving it for a special occasion.” Rickon looks smug. “And besides, what makes you think I want to throw her into this insanity?”

“Wait, Shireen Baratheon?” Talisa stares hard at Rickon. “Huh.”

“Nobody else understands it either,” Bran says. 

“I am a nice person,” Rickon says. “Why do you all act like I’m some terrible beast who’s corrupting a princess?”

“Three months in juvie,” Robb says.

“Mr. Liddle’s garage,” Arya says.

“Stole Theon’s weed when you were nine,” Bran says.

“First tattoo at thirteen,” Sansa adds. “Drunk and disorderlies,” Jon says. Sam nods. 

Rickon looks annoyed. “That was all years ago.”

“It’s just hard to understand what you see in someone so … Sansa-like,” Robb says. Sansa frowns at him. 

“There’s lots to see in someone like Sansa,” Margaery says, punctuating the statement with a quick kiss to Sansa’s neck.

A goofy grin is spreading across Rickon’s face. Sansa has never seen him look like that before and it’s actually a little alarming. 

“She’s great,” is all Rickon says. “And she’s a lot stronger than you think under the pretty dresses and sweaters.” 

“Well, Robb and I can’t be the only two people bringing someone forever,” Sansa says.

Talisa looks startled. 

“Robb and I aren’t together,” Talisa says. Robb sighs. “The baby doesn’t change that.” 

“But it does make you family,” Jon says.

“Like it or not,” Arya adds. “You’ll find it’s mostly not.” 

“Congratulations,” Bran says solemnly. “You’re now part of the Stark Family Circus.” 

Sansa really hopes Talisa doesn’t cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Talisa. Poor Rickon. For the record, Asha and Theon could have stayed, but Theon isn't up for it all the time and Asha has Val waiting on her which is way more interesting than Sansa prying into everyone's life.
> 
> Cakes! [Coconut cake](https://www.southernliving.com/recipes/coconut-cake), [Tennessee Jam Cake](https://www.southernliving.com/kitchen-assistant/all-i-want-for-christmas-is-a-tennessee-jam-cake), [pear upside down cake](https://www.finecooking.com/recipe/caramelized-pear-upside-down-cake). Traditional Tennesee Jam Cakes have the blackberry jam in the cake only, but I made a version using jam between the layers I liked a lot — except my caramel frosting was too stiff and the cake cracked. Need to try that one again with a better frosting. The chocolate cake has no recipe, it's just basic chocolate cake with an almond frosting that my mother makes. Probably she got the recipe out of a women's magazine sometime in the 70s but I'm not going to call and ask cause I don't want to explain fic writing.
> 
> Every Stark sibling has definitely walked in on their parents at least once and they are various degrees of scarred from it.


	70. Everything's Gonna Be Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dinner, various members of the Stark family reflect on the latest developments.

“Where did we go wrong?” Cat is lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Ned sighs. 

It’s been years since any of the children lived at home, but the house still feels too quiet after family dinners. They make Ned remember the years the house was overflowing with kids and friends and energy. He knows they’re lucky to have children who are still so close and involved, but sometimes he misses the days where they were all under one roof.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Ned says. 

“Robb’s having a baby out of wedlock,” Cat says. “Robb. He’s always been so responsible. Did we ignore him too much? Did we put too much responsibility on him?”

“He’s thirty-two,” Ned says. “Weren’t you just saying at Christmas you were worried none of them had kids?”

“I was worried none of them have families,” Cat says. “Stable families. With marriage and commitment. Before babies.” 

“I think Robb would like it to be a committed relationship.” Ned sees how his son looks at Talisa. “And she’s a nice young woman, good head on her shoulders.” 

When Robb had first told them the news, Ned had immediately thought about what kind of woman it could be. Shamefully, he’d jumped to some unsavory conclusions — as if his own sister hadn’t had an unplanned baby out of wedlock. In high school, no less.

“I’m not sure she’s committed to being a mother,” Cat says. 

“She just found out.” Ned looks at his wife. He loves how much care she’s devoted to their family and he wouldn’t change it for the world, but sometimes he wonders if she’s too stuck in her ideals of how things ought to be. “Things are different now than when we were young. Lots of people have babies when they’re not married, and lots of women work or go to school even when the baby’s young.”

“It is good that she has solid goals,” Cat says grudgingly. “Lovely manners, if we’re to have her as our — oh goodness, what do we even call her? She’s not our daughter-in-law.”

Ned thinks about the conversations he’s heard the sales associates having at the store. “I think they say baby mama these days.”

“Oh, that sounds horrible.” 

“At least Robb is stepping up,” Ned says. “We raised him to do the right thing, and you heard him. He’s going to be there for Talisa and the baby.” 

“And it will be nice to have a grandchild.” Cat relaxes a little next to him. “A little one to spoil and love.” 

“And send back home when it cries.” 

Ned catches Cat’s hand before she can smack him in the chest and gives her a wrist a kiss. 

“And Sansa.” Cat is tensing up again. “I can’t believe what I — in my own house! I store baking supplies on that shelf.”

“Baking supplies? Isn’t that pretty high up.” Ned and Cat never used anything higher than the canned goods. Then he thinks about it some more. “Oh.”

“I just, I don’t know how I’m supposed to look at her, Ned. I don’t want to see my daughter like that.” 

“Well, the pantry is usually nice and private,” Ned says. “I remember it very well.” 

“It’s our house,” Cat says. “We’re entitled to do whatever we want. This is about respect.”

“Like we respected your parents’ laundry room when we were first dating?” 

Ned can tell Cat is turning red without even turning his head to look at her. 

“Face it, she takes after you,” Ned says. “Frankly, I’m surprised she’s the only one we’ve walked in on.” 

“You didn’t walk in on anything.” Cat elbows him. “I’m the one who had to see things a mother doesn’t want to know about her baby girl.” 

“Alley after the Christmas party,” Ned says. “I like Margaery very much, but I didn’t really want to see that much of her.” 

"We were never that bad," Cat says. "Surely."

Ned is pretty sure they were. "Well, look on the bright side. At least they can't get pregnant."

* * *

"I'm glad you came to dinner," Sansa says, when they're lying in Margaery's bed and she's tracing her fingers over Margaery's spine. 

"It was fun," Magaery says. "Ours aren't nearly so exciting. Or frequent."

"I know it's a little weird to do every week." Sansa pauses to kiss Margaery's shoulder. "But I like my family."

"I think we traumatized your mom, though." Margaery runs her hand over Sansa's ribs.

Sansa snorts. "Good. Maybe now she'll stop asking me if I'm sure I like women, and I'm not confusing friendship with love."

"She's still having a hard time with it?"

"She's trying. But I'll be really glad to stop getting questions that are trying to politely ask if I'm sure I like to eat girls out." Sansa makes a face. "I was getting close to just explaining, in detail, the extent to which I am fully aware that I like dating women."

"I'd be happy to testify on your behalf," Margaery says. "Very enthusiasm. Much love." 

Alternately, Sansa supposes she could discuss the one, brief time, she'd tried dating a man. She only required one up close and personal encounter with a penis to be sure she didn't have interest in them. Or the obnoxious behavior of the man attached to it. 

Good men, like her brothers, bless them, still tend to come with an array of obnoxious boy behaviors that Sansa could do without. Even Loras and Renly, who are as gay as ... well, as gay as her and Margaery. She can walk into their house and just tell men live there. Maybe it's the smell of aftershave or something. Or maybe Sansa's weird.

"Talisa seemed nice," Sansa says, after a while. "I can see why Robb likes her. I just wish he wasn't so dumb about all of it."

"She might come around," Margaery says. "He's pretty cute."

"He’s also my brother," Sansa reminds her. "Ew. But he is a good guy, despite being an idiot." 

"And a baby," Margaery says. "I think your mom is about to try and take over their entire parenting plan. I hope Talisa has a good sense of boundaries."

"We'll reign her in if we have to," Sansa says. She strokes Margaery's hair, running her thumb over the fuzzy spot where it's shaved. "I always figured we'd have to have an intervention when one of us got married or had kids."

"Oh god, weddings." Margaery shudders. "She's got nothing on my grandmother."

Sansa thinks about the gala. "I think they might already be planning ours, actually."

"I can only imagine what they'll come up with," Margaery says. "Do you think they realize we can both wear dresses? I'm sure they're debating who has to wear a suit." 

"And figuring out bridal parties with about twenty attendants," Sansa says. "And flowers."

"It must be roses," Margaery says, imitating her grandmother's haughty tone. "She's a Tyrell, they have to have roses."

"My mother always thought I should carry hydrangeas from our garden," Sansa says. "I like the blue ones."

"Blue looks nice with your coloring." Margaery brushes Sansa's hair off her face. 

"Pale blue," Sansa specifies. "Like Cinderella."

"And silver," Margaery adds. "For winter."

"Oh, yes, in the snow." Sansa sighs, thinking about it. And then falls silent, realizing what they're talking about. Margaery seems to have come to a similar realization.

It's objectively too soon for them to even be considering thinking about something like marriage. They've only been dating a little over a month. It's far too soon to be thinking about standing in the church in white dresses, with blue and white bouquets and their family dressed in blue and silver and a reception that starts with a walk through a candle lit path in the snow. 

That doesn't mean Sansa isn't thinking about it as she falls asleep.

* * *

"My family is insane," Jon says. Ygritte barely moves from where she’s lying face-down on Jon’s bed. 

“I mean, family dinner is a weird weekly tradition on its own,” Jon continues, when Ygritte grunts slightly to show she’s listening. “But it’s really out of hand lately. And now with Margaery and Talisa around …”

That gets Ygritte to lift her head, shoving a tangle of red hair out of her face. 

“You can bring guests?”

“Yes?” Jon says, because he’s pretty sure the tone Ygritte just used isn’t a good one.

Ygritte’s eyes narrow. “So why am I not invited?”

“You are!” Jon says. “I mean, everyone is! I just … thought you wouldn’t want to go.”

Ygritte hauls herself to a sitting position and crosses her arms. Jon tries to ignore the way that squeezes her breasts together in a particularly tempting fashion. 

“Why wouldn’t I? Or are you bringing other secret girlfriends around?”

“I don’t have other girlfriends,” Jon says. “ _You_ won’t even call yourself my girlfriend.”

“But you insist I am,” Ygritte counters. “And you never mentioned this.”

“Because you hate when I mention couple things.” Jon rubs his eyes. 

“Yeah, but I like drama. And how do I know you’re not ashamed of me?”

“Why would I be ashamed of you?” Jon stares at Ygritte. “You’re amazing.”

Ygritte looks like she’s trying not to smile at that. “I know what people say about my family.”

Okay, yeah, the sprawling interconnected web of Wilde, Freeman and Giantsbane cousins hasn’t always had the best reputation around town. But it’s not like they’re Freys or something. 

Or Targaryens.

Like Jon. 

“I’m not ashamed of you. Fuck, we have Asha and Theon over all the time.” Jon sighs. “But I didn’t want to scare you away.”

“I’m not craven.” Ygritte finally uncrosses her arms, flopping back down on the bed. “If I don’t want to go, I won’t.”

Jon feels like he’s missing something important in this conversation. 

“Any week you want to come, you can,” he says. “Although I can’t guarantee as much drama as Robb’s baby mama and Sansa and Margaery getting caught fucking in the pantry.”

Ygritte grins. “In the pantry?” 

“It’s a very popular spot for private time,” Jon says dryly. 

Ygritte eyes gleam in a way that tells Jon he’s going to regret giving her that information. “Well, I‘m sure we can be far more creative than that.”

“Or not,” Jon says. “Aunt Cat still has a grudge about having to raise me along with Robb.” 

“Even better,” Ygritte says. She moves to straddle Jon, leaning forward with an eager look. “So what are the other Stark hook up spots? I need info.”

Jon groans. He’s pretty sure this is a conversation he’s going to regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned is going to be stuck deep-cleaning the pantry after this conversation, and he's pretty sure it's payback for when he and Cat were young and horny.
> 
> And poor Jon. Ygritte has way too much fun messing with him. And now she feels like she has a challenge they can embark on ...


	71. Get A Little Bit Tipsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has never been on a girl's night before, and certainly never one with so many pretty women and girly drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Meg for her mad beta skills! Someone involved with this story should be aware of grammar and it certainly isn't going to be me.

"Let's have a girls night!" 

Brienne looks up to where Sansa is standing in front of her desk, grinning.

"What now?"

"Girl's night." Sansa bounces a little on the balls of her feet. "You know, we go out and get fancy cocktails and talk about our lives."

"Who is we?" Brienne asks, because she's learning that asking a lot of questions is critical if she doesn't want to let Sansa drag her into things she'd rather not be doing.

"You and me. Asha, Shireen, maybe Val? Oh, and Ygritte, if I can get her. Talisa? Although." Sansa bites her lip. "Well, maybe. If you come, I can probably convince Arya. Oh! Gilly! And aren't you friends with the woman who owns the pet store?"

"I ... guess?" Brienne still doesn't know how she's supposed to tell when she's become friends with someone, instead of polite acquaintances. Unless they're like Sansa, and inform her of the friendship.

"Oh, _please_." Sansa looks at Brienne with a pleading face. "Marge is out of town for a week and a half and I'm so bored."

And so Brienne finds herself at Tarly's, crammed into a booth with more women than she's hung out with in her entire life. 

Which is not actually saying a lot.

Sansa and Shireen's friend Missandei, who has also come along, are arguing over cocktails and trying to pick the best drinks for everyone. Sansa is sipping a pretty yellow drink in a martini glass, which she informs Brienne is a lemon drop.

"I don't see why we can't order our own drinks," Asha says.

"Because you'll get rum, Brienne will get water, and we'll all be predictable," Sansa says. "This is about branching out."

"And being creative," Missy adds. She's scanning the menu, which is much larger than Brienne expected it to be. "Plus, I'm really trying to encourage the new bartender to keep offering new options."

"Word," Ygritte says.

Arya groans. "Can't I just get a beer?"

"No," Sansa says. "Fancy drinks are mandatory."

"I want that one," Shireen announces, spinning around to watch a waiter go by with something purple and sparkly. "I don't even care if it tastes good."

Sansa and Missy ask some questions of everyone, and then huddle together, whispering. 

"None for me," Talisa says. She looks around. "Well, I suppose half of you know already. No alcohol for me for the next six months."

Shireen catches on first, gasping. "A baby?"

"Yep." 

Brienne doesn't know Talisa at all, but she doesn't think the brunette looks entirely happy about it.

"Robb is an idiot," Arya says. "I really hope the kid gets your brains."

"I love babies," Gilly says. “They’re so soft and innocent.”

Sansa snags the waiter before anyone can interfere. Brienne sighs and hopes she won't end up with anything too terrible or embarrassing. Talisa is chatting about her pregnancy, and how she's adjusting to the idea of being a mother. 

"I can barely tell," Talisa says. "It doesn't feel real, you know? But I think I'm starting to get a little bump." 

Arya shudders a little. 

"I like kids," Shireen says. "But I'm not gonna lie, I'm also pretty happy to return my class to their parents at the end of the day."

"Amen," Missy says. "I mean someday..."

Shireen nods as the waiter returns with a tray full of colorful cocktails, including her purple, glittery drink. Brienne gets something Sansa informs her is an apricot blossom.

It's a terrible name, but it mostly tastes like apricot with a kick. Brienne can live with that. Sansa sips her second lemon drop, grinning around the table. 

"Wait!" Missy says. "Selfies!"

Brienne tries, along with Arya, to duck the barrage of phones that come out for photos but it turns out Sansa is even worse when she has a partner in crime. Arya copes by making terrible faces in all of the pictures. Brienne tries to hide between her martini glass as much as she possibly can. 

Talisa is tasting her elderberry fizz mocktail with a look of trepidation. "Make sure you hashtag it no alcohol," she tells Sansa. "Before your mother flips out."

Arya grudgingly admits her Bees Knees is a tasty drink, even if it has a stupid name, and Gilly giggles as she drinks something called a Love Potion. Who names these things?

"It's not bad, actually," Shireen says, after a sip of what is apparently called Unicorn Kisses. 

"I will give you twenty bucks if you get Rickon to order one," Arya tells her. Shireen grins.

“You’re on,” she says. 

“I’ll require photographic proof,” Arya says.

“Noted.” The two women shake on it, a surprisingly devious smirk on Shireen’s face.

"So," Missy says. "I know Shireen's drama, but what's the scoop with the rest of you?"

Sansa bounces in her seat a little, going around the table with summaries of everyone's love lives, ignoring Arya and Brienne's noises of protests. 

"We have no drama," Asha says. She has something called a Winter Sunshine, and looks less upset about it than Brienne would have figured. 

"Well, I think there's a fox getting into the chicken eggs?" Val offers, sipping her Gold Rush.

"So domestic," Brienne can't help saying, ignoring the death glare Asha gives her. It's payback for all the time Asha pokes at Brienne. 

Gilly goes off on a tangent about farm fresh eggs, that Brienne thinks results in a preliminary agreement for Val to supply Seven Sisters while everyone else makes their way through their drinks. Dany gasps after every few sips of her habanero blood orange margarita, but that only seems to make her love it more. 

"So Addam Marbrand," Missy finally says when Gilly and Val finish. She's looking at Brienne and gesturing with her gingersnap martini. "I really do have to admit to being curious about him. He's pretty fine but he seems a little uptight."

"I'm not dating him," Brienne says, and cuts Sansa off. "We went out once but I don’t … think it’s going to result in anything."

“You’ve only been on one date,” Asha says. “Give him a chance.”

"We just don't have much in common," Brienne says. 

"Neither do Rickon and I," Shireen says with another slurp of her drink. It really is a violent shade of purple. 

"We don't have your kind of ... chemistry either," Brienne tells her. She turns red just thinking about Shireen and Rickon, who she's now witnessed in varying states of embrace far more than she'd like. 

Brienne would like to have that kind of chemistry with someone, if she's being honest, but she doesn't think it's meant for women like her. 

"What's the deal with the guy who owns the gym?" Dany asks suddenly, saving Brienne from having to elaborate. That leads into a long conversation, with input mostly coming from Arya and Missandei, 

Brienne wonders why the topics revolve so much around dating when they're all adults with businesses or careers and lives. Arya, at least, has some good insights into the gym's facilities and class offerings that Brienne makes note of. She's been getting a little antsy being stuck inside all winter. 

Brienne lets the conversation wash over her as she sips her second drink, not really following. It‘s nice enough to be here, even if she'd rather talk about other things. Which does start to happen, slowly. Nobody has been mean to her or said anything about her looks, and she's been included in the conversation. That's never happened to her in a group this size, especially not a group that is mostly comprised of beautiful, stylish women. Brienne catches bits and pieces of things — Val and Gilly discussing homesteads, Shireen gushing about Rickon, Arya and Missy debating fitness classes, Talisa telling Dany about pre-med coursework. 

Listening to Shireen talk about Rickon gives Brienne a weird sinking feeling in her stomach, wondering if she's thrown away her one good chance at someone who could love her by not being interested in Addam. But she doesn’t feel like that when she’s with him, doesn’t get the butterflies Shireen talks about or feel like they’re pulled together like magnets. And Brienne wants that kind of feeling if she’s going to be with someone.

Maybe she's holding out for too much. 

Brienne is roused from her reverie by a shuffling of people. Somehow she ends up sitting between Gilly and Daenerys. Both of whom are on their fourth (or fifth?) drinks, while Brienne is just finishing her second and eyeing the third Sansa insisted she order. 

Gilly keeps giggling and leaning to one side or the other, getting gently righted by Brienne or Val, who is on her other side. And Dany insists Brienne try her drink and won’t stop insisting, which leads to a round of tasting everyone else’s cocktails. 

Brienne hopes nobody is sick. She also hopes the burn from the habanero will wear off soon and she’ll be able to feel her lips again. 

Soon, Dany is leaning against Brienne, laying her head on Brienne’s shoulder. “You’re so strong,” Dany says, patting Brienne’s arm. “Like, really strong.”

“Thank you?” Brienne says, unsure if it’s actually a compliment.

“I wish I was that strong,” Dany continues. 

Across the table, Sansa lets out a little giggle and nods. “Working with her and Asha is like living in a movie about Amazons,” she says, then hiccups.

“And your eyes are so pretty,” Dany says to Brienne. “Have I told you how pretty your eyes are?”

“Your eyes are very pretty, too,” Brienne says, wondering if she can get out of the booth without causing a scene. 

“And Shireen’s hair is so pretty,” Dany says, waving clumsily at her. “And Sansa’s skin and Missy has the best style.” 

“Everyone here is so pretty,” Sansa gushes. “And so _nice_.”

“I didn’t know people could be so nice,” Gilly adds. She slumps onto Val, who looks nearly as awkward as Brienne. 

Arya snorts from her seat, where she’s trying to avoid Shireen who seems intent on playing with her hair and attempting to style it.

“I just love you all so much,” Dany says earnestly. “We have to do this again.”

“Every week,” Sansa agrees. 

Gilly, Dany, and Sansa continue to exchange increasingly hyperbolic compliments about everyone at the table — Brienne has certainly never heard her eyes described like sapphires before or had anyone tell her they would like to climb her like a tree. (That one makes Asha fall over laughing.) But finally she and Val, who appear to be the most sober of the group (outside of Talisa, who just keeps rolling her eyes), manage to wrangle everyone out of the closing restaurant and herd them to various apartments to sleep it off. Brienne deposits Shireen and Missy in Shireen’s studio, Missy giggling hysterically at something and Shireen stumbling over her feet to fall dramatically on her loveseat, before heading to her own home and five very annoyed cats. Evenfall sniffs at Brienne as she scoops out dry food, letting out an annoyed huff, like she can smell the alcohol and disapproves.

“Don’t judge me,” Brienne tells the cat, who whips her fluffy, cream-colored tail in Brienne’s face in response as she turns to eat. 

It’s not the worst night Brienne has ever had. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany, Gilly, Sansa and Shireen have reached the drunk girls in bathrooms stage of the evening. 
> 
> Drinks! I wanted to try them all but then we went into quarantine and I'm not sure the liquor store IS actually as essential as claimed? IDK. I might have to brave it. I have tried a Bee's Knees (delicious!), lemon drop (also delicious) and the habanero blood orange margarita which was definitely super spicy and also yummy. Anyway. Feel free to try others and leave a comment. In particular, I REALLY WANT TO TRY THE UNICORN DRINK.
> 
> [Apricot blossom](https://www.saveur.com/article/Recipes/Apricot-Blossom/), [lemon drop](https://www.liquor.com/recipes/lemon-drop/), [gingersnap martini](https://www.thespruceeats.com/ginger-snap-martini-761062), [unicorn kisses](https://www.seductioninthekitchen.com/unicorn-kisses-cocktail/), [love potion](https://www.thechunkychef.com/love-potion-vodka-cocktail/), [bee's knees](https://www.liquor.com/recipes/bees-knees/), [elderberry fizz mocktail](https://goop.com/recipes/elderberry-syrup-and-fizz/), [winter sunshine](https://thedeliciousspoon.com/winter-sunshine-coconut-rum-cocktail/), [gold rush](https://www.bonappetit.com/recipe/gold-rush), [habanero blood orange margarita](https://www.thespruceeats.com/habanero-blood-orange-margarita-recipe-760776). 
> 
> GIRL SQUADS FOR EVERYONE.


	72. Country Roads Take Me Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran hasn't been out in the woods in close to 15 years.

By all accounts, Bran shouldn’t even remember what it’s like to be hiking. It’s been about 15 years, which seems so long, given how old he actually is but it doesn’t matter. Because he inhales the scent of sharp, winter air and pine boughs and he feels something bubbling up inside him that he’s almost forgotten.

Jojen is busy examining a crop of bushes that aren’t quite bare even in winter, but Meera grins excitedly where she’s standing next to Bran’s wheelchair.

The trail has changed since even a few days ago, when the Reeds brought him here for the first time. There’s a series of wood planks bridging the uneven terrain from the parking lot and where they end, the dirt trail has been widened and smoothed. 

“You’re sure it’s fine?” Bran asks, again.

It seems silly to worry, but he knows neither Meera or Jojen are strong enough to carry him back to the car if the trail isn’t as ready as they think. In summer it wouldn’t matter, but hypothermia comes on quickly, especially when you can’t move to keep warm.

Meera rolls her eyes. “Do you think we’d bring you here if it wasn’t?”

Bran grins up at her. 

“Fine,” he says. “But if I die, I‘m going to haunt you.”

Jojen snorts and returns to them, apparently satisfied with whatever he’s found in the bush. 

“You’d haunt us anyway,” Jojen says. Bran grins at his best friend and nods, then starts wheeling himself forward, expecting his friends will follow.

They do, and Bran tries to pay attention to the comments they toss back and forth once in a while, but he can’t.

It’s so _good_ to be back in the woods. Bran knows his family thinks he doesn’t really remember what it was like, before, but he does. He remembers the Stark family outings, Sansa grumbling but still having as much fun as the rest of them, his mother lecturing about the plants they passed on the trails, competing with Arya to see who could climb the highest in all the trees, Rickon insisting every vaguely pointed rock _must_ be an arrowhead.

Those all stopped after the accident. Sure, Bran’s father still went into the woods with Jon and Arya and Rickon, and sometimes Robb, but the whole family didn’t go. Bran stayed home, with his mother and Sansa, who tried their best to make it fun for him. 

Bran had cried at first, but his mother and father looked so stricken at his tears he’d forced himself to stop, to smile and pretend he liked doing crafts with Sansa and gardening with his mother. His parents had even caved and finally bought a game system which he, Robb, and Rickon delighted in but Bran has always missed going out into the woods, feeling the vastness of the world around him.

“How did you get permission to do this?” Bran wonders, noting the way the trail has been widened and any uneven ground smoothed.

Meera shrugs. “The ADA is pretty important. And there’s federal money if you make things accessible, so all we had to do was point that out to the rangers.”

She says it like it’s nothing, but it isn’t. It’s been fifteen years and nobody has given a thought to whether it might be possible for Bran to explore the Gift just like anyone else.

“We were worried you’d forget Skyrim wasn’t real nature,” Jojen says, deadpan, and Bran sticks his tongue out at his friend.

“It’s bad timing,” Meera says, apologetically. “It will be nicer in summer.”

“It’s nice now,” Bran says. Okay, the rims on his wheels are freezing, and the fingerless gloves Sansa knit him only protect his hands so much but Bran can’t bring himself to care very much.

The Nightwatch trail is one of the easiest in the park, and even at eight or nine Bran would have scoffed at anyone excited about it. But that was before, and now at twenty-five he’s thrilled to be out at all. They continue in silence for a while — Jojen darts off to look at various plants and Meera is scanning their surroundings like she’s expecting something to go wrong, but Bran doesn’t care 

Not even when they reach the end of the expanded trail and have to turn around, Meera flushing with embarrassment.

“We’re going to do the whole loop,” she tells Bran, one hand flexing near her thigh. “It was supposed to be done.”

“The snow,” Jojen says, and doesn’t bother to finish his thought.

He doesn’t have to. Bran knows he’s talking about the series of unexpected storms that hit after Christmas. 

“It’s great,” Bran says, looking at Jojen instead of Meera. 

Jojen is staring off into the distance. Bran doesn’t bother asking what his best friend is seeing — he knows it doesn’t actually matter. Jojen is weird, everyone says, but who isn’t weird? Bran doesn’t care if he and Jojen see things the same way or not, because they’ve always been there for each other, no matter what. 

Meera makes a grumpy noise, and Bran tries very hard not to think about all the ways he’d like to soothe her ruffled feelings. 

Sansa thinks he’s chicken, but it’s not that. Bran knows Meera gets plenty of unwanted attention from guys who come into Reed’s Outdoor Emporium, eyeing her legs in short shorts and making not-so-subtle comments about how they’d like to get her alone in the woods.

Bran doesn’t want to be like those guys, even if Meera’s legs do look really good in short shorts. Or in the long, fleece-lined jeans she’s wearing now to complement the many layers of shirts and sweaters she’s got on to protect her against the cold.

“It’s still great,” Bran manages, as he tries to turn his chair around in the space at the end of the trail.

He’s almost successful, but he can’t help feeling a rush of shame when he doesn’t quite succeed and Meera has to grab the handles and help him. Jojen is too busy examining the bark on a nearby tree to offer his help. Bran isn’t sure if it’s because he’s genuinely fascinated or because he’s picked up on Bran’s interest in his sister.

Probably the former. Jojen doesn’t usually remember that most people have romantic feelings.

Meera still has a slight scowl on her face as they walk back. Bran finally reaches over and pinches her on her outer thigh, hard enough to make her yelp and look down at him again.

“It’s great, Meer.” 

Meera looks surprised, then still annoyed. 

“It was supposed to be done,” she mutters. “I’d have waited if I knew.”

Bran stays quiet for a minute. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to — what he’s meant to say here. He knows what he _feels_ but that’s not the same as actually saying it. Jon calls him a robot, mostly teasing, but Bran knows that’s how most people see him. Everyone’s always expected him to be a mess, after everything, and Bran felt like a mess inside but he couldn’t … everyone just looked down at him in the hospital bed with these stricken faces and his mother let tears fall every time she thought he couldn’t see her and so Bran just … stopped. Locked it all away inside and let everyone else have their feelings instead.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he finally manages. 

Jojen is still lagging behind when they reach the parking lot and it’s cold, so Bran hoists himself into his car. Meera is already breaking down his chair before he can start, and stowing it away where he can reach to get it out again. 

“I remember going out with you guys, before,” Meera says suddenly. Bran thinks it might be the first time she’s ever mentioned that time, at least with him.

“You and Jojen would run around and you’d have this stick you said was your sword and Jojen would make his stupid potions and play like you were knights and wizards,” Meera says. She makes a face, and Bran almost says Jojen’s potions weren’t stupid on reflex, but then remembers the time Jojen served his family wild blueberry tea. Except it wasn’t wild blueberries he’d picked, it was sweet amber and Meera had ended up in the hospital two towns over getting her stomach pumped. 

“You two were just so happy,” Meera says. “You were … he didn’t have many friends who would put up with how into his games he’d get, but you always looked like you were having just as much fun as he was.”

“I was,” Bran says.

“And then you just … I don’t know.” Meera shrugs, and looks away. “I know you’ve got your own things going on now, but it’s always made me sad that you couldn’t keep coming out with us.”

Bran supposes he has his own things. In a way. He likes working for Alys at the ice cream shop well enough, and he’s got video games and books. He’s not sure it’s the same though. Or it’s really him.

“Just because some of us know how to exist indoors,” he starts, instead of going down a route of introspection.

Meera wrinkles her nose. “Hey, I do things indoors!”

Bran raises an eyebrow in wordless challenge.

“You don’t know everything about me, Bran Stark.” Meera folds her arms over her chest. “I contain multitudes.”

Bran is about to challenge her on that, but Jojen finally joins them, grinning, and Bran loses himself in a conversation about all the adaptive gear options his best friend has researched. 

Next time, maybe he’ll manage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bran and Meera! I've been working to wrap my head around Bran, so excited to get to this chapter. 
> 
> I hope everyone is hanging in there — I've been hitting the panic levels of my quarantine, which is super. Made worse by the footage of protesters who are inevitably going to make other people sick. On the flip side, I'm pretty sure I developed an instant crush on that nurse in Denver who was standing in the intersection with action hero levels of chill. I DON'T KNOW YOU NAMELESS NURSE DUDE BUT I WOULD HIT IT. 
> 
> Ahem. Who needs sanity, anyway? Stay home, stay safe, hope you are all well.


	73. The Most Amazing Things Can Come From ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany finally meet. Ygritte is not helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to elizadunc for her excellent beta work!

Jon doesn’t know if this is a good idea.

Actually, he’s pretty sure it’s not a good idea but he’s curious enough to do it anyway. 

Ygritte hasn’t helped, smirking at him from what Jon tries very hard not to think of as her side of his bed and telling him she’d be watching his meeting with Aunt Perky Tits to make sure there was no funny business.

Jon really wishes Ygritte would stop referring to Daenerys as Aunt Perky Tits.

He also wishes she’d stop smirking at him from behind the counter of Wilding’s, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

She probably does.

It hadn’t taken much work to get in touch with Daenerys — apparently Sansa is kind of friends with her, and Jon doesn’t know how that’s happened but it’s Sansa so he’s not going to think about it too hard or his brain will start hurting — and she had seemed pleasant enough when they made plans to meet for coffee.

Jon’s gone over everything he knows about his Targaryen relatives since their brief, awkward phone call. 

It isn’t much. Jon can count all the times he’s met his father without running out of fingers, though his parents did try to call and talk with some regularity when he was a kid. They usually failed at it, but they tried. And they’d always sent boxes for Christmas and his birthday, first with strange, eclectic collections of weird hippie art and California-themed nonsense when he was little and then with increasingly expensive things Jon doesn’t need as he got older and they got more successful. 

But neither his father or his mother talked much about the rest of the family. His mother only called Aerys an evil, heartless bastard and Rhaella a ‘spineless bitch,’ which made Aunt Cat wince and Uncle Ned clench his teeth. Jon knows there’s a police file on Aerys, just like there’s a victim file on Rhaella, but he’s never looked at them.

All Jon really knows is the basics he’s weaseled out of his aunt and uncle. His mother was only 15 when Jon was born. His father was 22 and married, with one child already and his wife pregnant at the same time as Lyanna. Jon’s parents took off to California soon after Jon was born, leaving him with Ned and Cat. Rhaegar’s first wife had gone back to whatever southern state the Martells are originally from — Louisiana, maybe — along with most of the family. 

The Martells have moved back to Westeros in recent years too, at least some of them, and now Daenerys has. Jon wonders what it means, or if it means anything at all. Both families had been in Westeros for decades. Not as long as the Starks or Lannisters, but long enough to shock everyone when they pulled up stakes.

Jon knows something bad went down with Aerys, not long after Rhaegar and Lyanna’s scandal, and Jon’s grandmother had taken her remaining children off to Europe. Jon hasn’t met any of them. Not his grandmother, not his aunt or uncle, and certainly not his half siblings. 

Jon’s always figured it doesn’t matter much, considering there’s Stark and Tully relatives coming out of his ears, but he feels weirdly nervous about meeting Daenerys. Enough that he’s changed clothes about five times before leaving his apartment.

“That’s your date shirt,” Ygritte says, eyes narrowed, as she sets a coffee in front of him. Black, which makes Jon grimace a little.

“I don’t have a date shirt,” Jon says. 

“It’s the shirt you were wearing the first time we fucked.” 

“We weren’t on a date,” Jon points out. “It’s my nice shirt.”

Ygritte seems to consider this. “You only have one nice shirt?”

Jon glares at her. “Really? That’s what you’re going to focus on?”

“You look very nice,” Ygritte says, in a solemn tone that tells Jon she’s not being serious. “I’m sure Aunt Perky Tits will be very proud of her little nephew.”

Jon groans and drops his head on the table. He can hear Ygritte snickering as she makes her way back to the counter. 

That’s how he is when Daenerys comes in, hesitant and asking if Jon is sure it’s a good time and he trips over his words reassuring her it’s fine, it’s just … Ygritte. Who of course swoops over with what is apparently Daenerys’ regular order and a smile.

Daenerys looks confused and Jon doesn’t blame her.

“So,” Jon starts. 

Damn Ygritte, now he can’t not notice that his aunt is an attractive woman. Which makes Jon feel like he needs a shower, noticing Daenerys’s slim figure and platinum curls tied up in braids, her violet eyes. She’s his aunt, for heaven’s sake.

Actually, her eyes are interesting for reasons that aren’t creepy.

“You and my dad have the same eyes,” Jon blurts out. As if she’s somehow unaware that she resembles her own brother.

“We all do,” Daenerys says. “Well, not Rhaenys. She looks like her mother.”

“You’ve met Rhaenys?”

“Not really,” Daenerys says. “She sends me pictures once in a while.”

It’s … awkward, there’s no other word for it. But Daenerys — who insists, after a while, that Jon call her Dany — seems almost as lost as he is on how to navigate their strange relationship. Rhaegar hasn’t done any better at keeping in touch with his mother and siblings than he has at keeping in touch with his son, and the Martells want nothing to do with the family. Aegon, in particular, holds a grudge though Dany says she’s been writing to Rhaenys since they both became adults.

“Do you ever get lonely?” Jon asks. “I mean, I have the Starks but …”

Dany toys with the spoon she’s been using to stir her coffee. “Sometimes. I mean, I had Viserys but that’s not … well, you’re not missing anything by not knowing him so I guess I figured it’s not worth the trouble.”

Jon nods, slowly.

“I mean, I don’t mean you’re not worth the trouble,” Dany says, hastily. “You seem nice and Sansa is great, it's just … I know the Starks aren’t wild about my family.”

“They won’t hold what your brother did against you,” Jon says. “Uncle Ned does look like he wants to punch him any time he dares to show his face, though.”

“Mom’s thought about getting in touch with you,” Dany says. “But she figured they wouldn’t want her to have any contact with you after everything.”

Jon feels a weird tightness in his chest, thinking about a grandmother he’s never met. 

“I don’t know how they’d feel,” he tells her. “But it might be nice.”

“She’s kind, but she’s fragile.” Dany gives Jon a searching look. “I don’t think she ever really recovered from my father.”

Jon nods, as if he knows the story, as if his grandparents aren’t just names on files he’s never been brave enough to open. 

“I only remember Elia a little bit,” Dany says. “She was always sweet, but after what my brother did, I don’t blame her for not speaking to us. And your mom used to babysit me.”

Jon startles a little.

“How do you think she met Rhaegar?” Dany grins. Jon supposes he’s never thought much about it, it’s not like Westeros is a huge place. 

“I’m just surprised anyone let her supervise children,” Jon says. He’s heard plenty from Aunt Cat, about the state he was in when Lyanna and Rhaegar gave up and showed up at the Starks to shove a tiny, squalling Jon into Cat and Ned’s arms next to tiny, squalling Robb. 

Depending on Aunt Cat’s mood, it’s a story that’s either hilarious or rage-inducing. 

“It was a long time ago, but I remember a lot of making messes and eating peanut butter sandwiches,” Dany says.

The conversation drifts and stalls a bit afterwards, and Jon is surprised to notice how late it is when Dany checks her phone and says she has to get home to feed her pets. They manage an awkward handshake-hug combo and Jon figures it could have gone worse.

Especially when Ygritte plops herself down in the chair across from him with something far too caffeinated for seven at night.

“Ask her where she gets her bras,” Ygritte says. “I need to know.”

Jon sighs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I AM ALIVE. And somewhat functional. Maybe. Anyway. Poor Jon and Dany, both awkward and Ygritte is just not at all sympathetic. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for reading even though my updates are not always consistent. I do appreciate every last one of you, and I hope you haven't abandoned this story.


	74. Been Funny, Been Cool With The Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne doesn't expect to call Addam again. She definitely doesn't expect to find she's the one who's less interested in a relationship.

Brienne doesn't plan on texting Addam again, after feeling completely humiliated, but Ellaria insists it will be good for her. Ellaria thinks Brienne has made enough progress to try talking to Addam without being totally blinded by her own insecurities.

Brienne mostly expects Addam to ignore her, but he texts back and they wind up meeting at Cassel's for bowling. When Brienne gets there, Addam is already in the lobby, holding a bowling ball bag and a pair of shoes that are much nicer than any rentals.

"You have your own bowling shoes," Brienne says.

"And my own ball." Addam grins. "Get ready to lose."

Brienne has to get rental shoes, which emit a faint smell of sweat and barely fit. She's putting them on when it occurs to her to ask why Addam has his own bowling gear.

"Bowling league," Addam says. As if it's obvious. "We're second place in the tri-county championship."

Addam, as it turns out, does take bowling very seriously, but not so seriously he's a jerk about it. And having something to do makes it a lot easier for Brienne to keep from panicking about not knowing what she's doing or running out of conversation topics. 

She loses the game. She also finds out Addam is a lawyer, prefers to represent the prosecution over defense, hates family law cases, is a member of the bowling league, and is a member of a lot of community organizations, including the local Elks Lodge. 

Which gives Brienne the unfortunate mental image of Addam with a large set of antlers, and she barks out a loud laugh before clapping her hand over her mouth. 

“Sorry,” Brienne says, feeling her face flush. She shouldn’t laugh at him. If someone did that to her, she’d feel awful. And her laugh is so loud and obnoxious, she’s surely drawn attention.

“Nah, it’s okay. I know I’m a nerd,” Addam says. 

“No, that’s not … you said elks and my first thought was animals and I just pictured you with antlers …” Brienne tries to demonstrate, forming her fingers into antler shapes, but drops her hands quickly, feeling ridiculous. 

Addam grins, though, and lets out a little laugh of his own. 

“It’s okay to think I’m a nerd,” he says. “I know it’s weird, but my dad’s a member too and it’s a good way to do things for the community. And some of the older guys in the lodge, it means a lot to them to have younger guys be a part of it and listen to what they have to say. Some of them, it’s the only socializing they get.”

That makes Brienne feel even worse for laughing, because of course Addam is the kind of guy who has a good, selfless kind of reason for doing something that’s admittedly dorky. 

Brienne doesn’t realize she’s been staring at her shoes until Addam pokes her in the side and suggests they get food before their next game. He guides Brienne to the food counter with his hand on her lower back, though, so he can’t be too upset. 

“So, what about you? Your hobbies?” Addam asks, once they’re seated at a table with large beers. 

“I’m not really a joiner,” Brienne says. She casts around for something to say that doesn’t sound pathetic, like I mostly just work and take care of my cats does. “I’m looking forward to the hiking around here, when it gets warmer.”

Addam isn’t much of an outdoorsman, but he has grown up in Westeros so chatting about some of the local trails and features takes up the time until their order is called and Addam insists on retrieving the tray loaded with food. 

Addam looks Brienne over as she’s taking a huge bite of her burger. Which, she realizes, is probably not a great date food to order, a chili cheeseburger. She probably should have gotten something she could at least try to eat gracefully. 

“Have you thought about volunteering with the fire department?” Addam says, between wings. He has sauce all over his fingers and some on his chin, so Brienne doesn’t feel as bad about her messy meal. 

“You’re the second person to suggest that. One of the Mormonts said I should try too … Darcy?”

“Dacey?” Addam’s eyes light up a little. “You two would probably get along great, actually. She’s trying to get a roller derby team going too, you seem like the athletic type.”

“And you aren’t?” Brienne’s seen his abs, a thought which makes her cheeks go pink again. 

“I’m a spend-time-in-the-gym-because-I’m-vain kind of guy,” Addam responds. He leans back in his chair and raises his eyebrows, and Brienne has to bite back another laugh. 

They play another couple games after they eat, and Addam is a gracious winner. He assures Brienne she’s improving, which Brienne doesn’t believe at all, but it is kind of him to say. 

Addam insists on walking Brienne down the block to her car, and it’s there he pauses and gives her a look Brienne can’t decipher.

“So,” Addam says, after what appears to be some internal debate. “I have a hunch you won’t take me up on it, but if you’d like to come back to my place …”

Brienne gapes at him for what feels like a full five minutes before pulling herself together. She can feel the heat rising in her face as she stumbles over an effort to find a polite refusal. 

Of all the things Brienne anticipated from this date, an invitation to have sex was not one of them.

Distantly, she recalls Jaime’s rambling comments about Addam being a guy who is … prone to such offers.

Addam cuts her off with a small smile. 

“I figured it wasn’t your style, but a man can dream.” He gives her a little wink that makes Brienne flush even more as he says it.

Brienne isn’t sure of the polite response here — is she meant to kiss him? Hug him? Shake his hand? Addam laughs a little as they stumble over a strange hug/handshake dance and presses a kiss to Brienne’s cheek before ambling back towards his own vehicle. 

She’s still trying to sort it out when she sees Ellaria again. 

“You should never feel obligated to have sex with anyone,” Ellaria says firmly. 

Brienne can’t help rolling her eyes. 

“I wouldn’t be a 37-year-old virgin if I did,” she mutters. Then winces, because that wasn’t quite what she meant to say.

To her credit, Ellaria’s face doesn’t betray any of her feelings. Brienne thinks that must be something they teach at therapy school. 

“Is that something you feel self-conscious about?” Ellaria asks. Brienne groans. 

It is yet another one of those issues they aren’t going to process all at once, according to the therapist. Brienne struggles for words more than usual, because she can’t help noticing once again how attractive Ellaria is. Surely she can’t know what it’s like to be in Brienne’s shoes. 

“I just feel like …” Brienne shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t really want to, but what if that’s the only chance I get?” 

“Well, first of all, you could ask him out again,” Ellaria says. “But may I say something?”

Brienne nods. 

“My role as a therapist is to be objective,” Ellaria says. “But speaking as a person. Brienne, you’re smart and kind and your looks may not be typical but that doesn’t mean you aren’t attractive. Addam clearly thinks so, and so would I, if we were to meet in a different setting. And I’m certain that we aren’t the only ones in the world who hold that view.”

Brienne has trouble believing that to be true, and she’s sure Ellaria notices, but she dutifully promises to think about it.

Maybe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a million thanks to elizadunc for her beta-ing. Without her, this story would be much less readable.
> 
> Addam is a NERD. TOTAL NERD. A hot nerd, yes but still. Giant nerd who likes women who can bench press him. And maybe a tiny bit of a manwhore, in an open and honest kind of way. Also, his bowling shoes are orange and grey and black, in honor of House Marbrand's sigil and colors. 
> 
> Brienne's conversation may or may not be inspired by real ones I've had with a therapist, ahem. Bless therapists for listening to neurotic people like me. 
> 
> Hope you are all well in this crazy times, free of COVID and murder hornets.


	75. Live With All Your Faults

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb just wants a chance to be a real father and maybe, just maybe, a partner to Talisa.

Robb is surprised, but pleased, when Talisa asks if he’d like to come along to her prenatal appointment. His mother makes a face when Robb tells her why he’s taking the afternoon off, but Robb shrugs it off. 

Cat will come around eventually, even if Robb is going about things all wrong in her opinion.

He’s just going to try to stay quiet until that happens.

Actually staying quiet is a lot of what Robb finds himself doing, so far. Like he does when Talisa gripes the entire time they’re in the waiting room, complaining about having been ordered to drink a ton of water and then sent to wait. 

And when she sharply corrects the tech who refers to Robb as her boyfriend. 

Doc Luwin looks surprised to see them when he comes in, but doesn’t say anything about it. Robb sits at Talisa’s head and stares fixedly at the wall while the exam happens. He doesn’t look back until the tech comes back and sets up for the ultrasound.

“Finally,” Talisa mutters. Robb takes her hand without thinking, and she glares a little but doesn’t pull away. 

Talisa’s stomach is much more pronounced than Robb has realized, she pulls her loose shirt up. She looks pregnant, not just like she’s gaining a few pounds. 

Robb isn’t _entirely_ sure what he’s supposed to be looking at on the screen. It finally snaps into focus, though and Robb draws a sharp breath.

There on the screen — it’s undoubtedly a _baby_. Intellectually, Robb’s known this, but the first ultrasound Talisa showed him looked more like a goat than anything and she hasn’t looked any more pregnant when he’s seen her around. 

But that’s a baby, really, he can see it as the tech points out the head and arms and asks if they’d like to know the sex.

“No,” Talisa says vehemently. She glances over at Robb. “I’m not letting your mother start with that gendered shit.”

Robb feels like he should object on his mother’s behalf, but Talisa isn’t wrong. He still feels stunned when he follows her out of the clinic and suggests a late lunch at Fat Walda’s. 

Talisa is still quiet and Robb toys with the salt and pepper shakers and tidy row of condiments for a while before he finally speaks. 

“I’m thinking of buying a house,” Robb says, turning the tabasco bottle from side to side, watching the red liquid ooze along the glass. 

“And …?” Talisa says.

“I thought maybe we could live there. Not together together,” Robb adds hastily. “I just mean. If there’s a baby, it would be easier for both of us to be around to share work.”

“There is going to be a baby,” Talisa corrects. Robb can’t help looking towards her mid-section.

“I want to be around,” Robb says. He tries not to make it sound like he’s pleading. “I don’t want to just … it doesn’t even feel real right now, I don’t know anything about how your pregnancy is going or any of it.”

“It’s going fine,” Talisa responds. She sits back to let the waitress slam their plates down and waits until she’s gone before digging into her liver and onions with relish. “I’m craving red meat a lot, though. Anything with iron.”

She gestures at her plate. 

“Have you told anyone?” Robb asks. Talisa flushes a little.

“No,” she admits, between bites. “I don’t know what to say.”

Robb raises his eyebrows, mouth full of tuna melt.

“I’m not the sort of woman this happens to,” Talisa says. “I mean except I am but … we’re not together and I’m supposed to be getting ready to become a doctor and I feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

“You will become a doctor,” Robb says. “And we could be together.”

Talisa sighs.

“I mean it,” Robb says. “I thought you — you know, you’ve never once said you aren’t interested in me. Just that you didn’t want to be with me because of Roslin.”

“That isn’t enough?”

“I’ll accept it,” Robb says truthfully. “But can you really tell me there’s nothing between us?”

“That doesn’t matter if you’re someone who will lie and cheat,” Talisa says. 

“I wasn’t cheating, I had broken up with her!” Robb tries not to raise his voice in frustration. 

“If I ask her that, will she tell me the same thing?”

“Probably.” Robb scrubs his face with his hands. “I don’t know, I have no idea what goes through her mind.” 

“You know, it’s not a good sign when men refer to their exes as crazy,” Talisa says.

“She’s not crazy. She’s just …” Robb isn’t sure how to explain Roslin. “Her dad’s difficult and she dealt with it by blocking out a lot of what he said. And I think sometimes she just still hears what she wants to. To be fair, if lived with old Walder, I’d probably be the same way.” 

Talisa looks slightly mollified. 

“But all that aside, I would like to buy a house.” Robb takes a breath. “It’s my baby too, and I don’t want to miss out on anything.” 

“I can’t pay much rent,” Talisa warns.

“You don’t need to pay any.” Robb’s done the math. It will be cheaper than the mortgages and dues on his condo, even a nice house. His condo dues are really outrageous. “Just give me a chance to at least be a real father.”

“You’ll always have that.” Talisa finishes her plate and looks down. “I can’t promise anything else, though. It’s … you have a lot of trust to re-build.”

It’s not a no. Robb will take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Elizadunc, who patiently finds all my errors. 
> 
> Talisa is definitely a little sharp right now, because this is all going contrary to her mental image of who she is. 
> 
> And Cat would absolutely go full on pink or blue for a baby if she had the gender, so Talisa is very smart to not find out. She also knows Robb would cave under his mother's pressure if they tried to keep it secret.


	76. Just A Breath Of Dust Settling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime isn't stalking Brienne, he just notices her around town. And he worries, because he's a nice person. That's all it is.

Jaime isn't spying on Brienne. It's just a small town and you see people. Like the cat wench and Addam having dinner in a diner, who look, through the windows, like they're having a miserable time.

Which is surprising, actually.

Addam may have his faults but he's a genuinely fun guy. Especially with women. Jaime has no idea why Brienne looks like she's facing execution.

Then again, Jaime is still confused by New Year's Eve and how he suddenly seemed to have made Brienne so angry just by dancing with her. It's not that Jaime isn't an asshole -- he certainly is much of the time. But he's generally aware he's doing it. And he definitely wasn't on New Years.

Jaime also doesn't mean to see Brienne coming out of Ellaria's office while he's getting coffee and hot chocolate at Wildling's before the kids have to go in for their appointment. Jaime tries very hard to respect Ellaria's rule about not arriving more than 15 minutes early for appointments, for privacy reasons. But he's learned that if he lets Myrcella and Tommen go home after school on appointment days, he'll never get them out in time. Or Tommen will end up carrying Ser Pounce to therapy, which had not go over well when it turned out Ellaria is allergic to cats.

Jaime feels almost ashamed to know Brienne is seeing a therapist. It's really none of his business and it's a very personal thing. It feels like he's invaded her privacy. Even if he didn't mean to.

He doesn't feel bad enough, however, to not discuss it with his brother while he's trying to figure out what happened at New Year's. It's not like he has much else to do when Tyrion ropes him into putting new stock on the higher shelves in the bookstore.

"I just don't understand," Jaime says. "I didn't say anything mean! And she just got so mad." 

Tyrion sighs.

"She's seeing Ellaria. I wonder if that has anything to do with it?" Jaime looks at his brother. "Do you think she's okay?"

"I don't know, Jaime, why don't you ask her?"

"I can't! She doesn't know I know. She'd probably punch me." 

Tyrion rolls his eyes. "You might deserve it."

"I do not." Jaime really hasn't done anything punch worthy. "I wasn't stalking her, it was an accident, I was taking Myrcella and Tommen for their appointment."

"Do you think it has something to do with Addam?" Jaime says, when his brother doesn't answer. "I knew that was a bad idea."

"Isn't Addam your friend?" Tyrion sounds like he's going somewhere with this, and that should probably scare Jaime. His brother gets strange ideas.

"Of course."

"So why are you so sure he's done something to Brienne?" Tyrion leans forward, chin in his hands. He looks like he's trying to mimic a detective from a bad movie.

"He's my friend, that doesn't mean he's not a manwhore." Jaime means it with love, he really does. "She turns red at the drop of a hat, you know she's going to think it all means something."

"I don't think he's a —” Tyrion stops and shakes his head. "Nevermind. You're sure it's not that you're jealous?"

"Jealous?" Jaime laughs. 

"Why else are you so obsessed with this woman?"

That's a stupid question. There are plenty of reasons for Jaime to be concerned about Brienne that have nothing to do with jealousy.

He's just not able to name any of them at the moment.

That doesn't mean they don't exist.

"You've had a strange fascination with the blonde giant since you went to the animal shelter," Tyrion points out. "You invite her over — to my place, by the way — to see a cat you adopted because she made you feel bad."

"She didn't make me feel bad, it was a sad story," Jaime says.

"You chase after her at the Christmas party," Tyrion barrels on. "You're unreasonably upset to see someone else kiss her, and you're actively trying to sabotage her relationship with someone who is your very good friend and not a bad person or a manwhore at all."

Well, when you put it that way.

"I do sound jealous, don't I?"

It's ridiculous. Jaime doesn't know why he'd be jealous. 

"I want you to consider that possibly, you might be attracted to this woman." Tyrion suggests.

Jaime almost drops the pile of books he's holding on his brother's head.

"That's ..." absurd, he almost says, but that feels cruel to voice. Even when Brienne can't hear him. 

Sure, her face is plain, to put it generously, and she's tall and bulky but it's not like she's towering over Jaime or anything. It's just a few inches. And being that tall means her legs are really very long, which is abundantly clear when she bothers to dress up in something nice. 

And she's not curvy much at all, and she looks almost like a man most of the time. Except, again, when she dresses up and it's possible to see the delicate curve of her hips and the soft swell of her breasts. Which are small, but it isn't like you _need_ anything more than a mouthful. 

And her eyes are the clearest blue Jaime has ever seen. Eyes that feel like they're looking into his soul, especially when she's yelling at him because she refuses to be intimidated. Eyes that get soft and sad when she talks about the animals she's trying to help.

"Holy shit."

"Finally," Tyrion says. "Do you know how terrible it's been to watch you blunder through this with no idea?"

Jaime sets the book down, ignoring Tyrion's shouts about them not being in the right place and makes his way to the reading chairs. He needs to sit down to process this.

It's not that Jaime doesn't like women. He does. It's just ... not often. Or it is often but only lasts until they open their mouths and say something stupid.

He certainly doesn't have a history of developing crushes on large, well-muscled women who turn red at the slightest thing and who literally spend their time rescuing kittens.

"Well, now you can ask her out," Tyrion says. Jaime stares at him in horror.

"I can't ask her out, she hates me!"

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you," Tyrion says. "Distrust you, maybe, but not outright hate."

"And that's better?" Jaime leans his head back.

It would figure, the first woman he's thought about in years and he's already screwed it up.

"Well, you just have to convince her to trust you." Tyrion makes it sound like it's as easy as riding a bike. "And then ask her out."

"She's dating Addam," Jaime says mournfully. "He got there first."

"I thought you said Addam was a bad match for her," Tyrion counters.

"He is, but she doesn't know that yet." Jaime sighs. "How did you ask Tysha out?"

Tyrion flushes. "We're not talking about me, we're talking about you and Brienne."

Jaime narrows his eyes. "How did you ask Tysha out?"

Tyrion mutters something. Jaime raises his eyebrows. "I'm gonna need that again."

"She came into the store and told me to ask her," Tyrion says, glaring at Jaime. 

Jaime doesn't think that's going to work in his case. 

"We're grown men. Shouldn't we be better at this?" Jaime is pretty sure they should be better at this.

"Probably." Tyrion considers it. "I'm a dwarf. What's your excuse?"

Jaime doesn't have an excuse. Not really. Years spent trying to do what Cersei said and make her happy explains some things, but he'd pulled away from his sister years ago. 

"I mean, I'm relieved," Tyrion continues. "I was beginning to wonder about you. When was the last time you got laid?"

Jaime tries to think about it. Alysane Eastermont had been back in town and they'd decided to give it another try but the chemistry wasn't there. That was ... "About three years ago?"

Tyrion shakes his head. "I don't know how you survive. That can't be healthy. You should at least go to Chataya's or something before you spontaneously combust."

Jaime makes a face. "No thanks."

It's not that Jaime has a problem with casual sex or anything. It's fine. It's just not for him. He'd tried in his early 20s — again, to fit Cersei's image of who he should be — and Jaime doesn't feel any need to go back to that behavior. It just feels so ... impersonal. 

"I mean you do ... you know. Have sex, right?" Tyrion asks. 

"Oh my god, seriously, you're asking me that?" Jaime looks at his brother like he's crazy. 

"Look, you've been single for years, you don't go to whores, you don't pick up women in bars, you don't pick up men in bars, you can't blame me for wondering!" 

Jaime pinches the bridge of his nose. "I just prefer to have sex with people I have actual feelings for, is that so strange?"

"A little bit, yeah." Tyrion shrugs. "Especially when you don't seem to have relationships either."

It isn't like Jaime hasn't tried. Once he realized dating the women Cersei picked out for him was never going to work, he'd tried to make it work. He'd dated Alysane for a while, and it was fine, they just didn't have a lot of chemistry and she was moving overseas anyway. Jeyne had been great, except for the part where she didn't want marriage or kids, ever, and Jaime absolutely does want those things. And Lyra Mormont ... well, the less said about Lyra the better.

She's a perfectly lovely person, Jaime just wants her to be a perfectly lovely person somewhere far away from him.

"It haven't seen you in committed relationships either," Jaime says.

"Yeah, but I wasn't trying." Tyrion considers it. "I think I might be in one now."

"You've been on like five dates!" 

"They were really good dates." Tyrion gives Jaime a lascivious grin. "And I like her with her clothes on, too." 

Jaime resists the urge to say something snarky. He is happy for Tyrion, really, he is. It just seems unfair, at the moment. 

“Might I suggest you start with an apology?” Tyrion says. “But not until you finish with those books.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to elizadunc for her patient editing!
> 
> YES FINALLY SOMEONE GETS A CLUE. Bravo Jaime. 
> 
> Chapter title is from B-13 by Jump, Little Children, which is a song you should go listen to RIGHT NOW.


	77. Body Parts Are Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen feels like a puffy, lavender marshmallow. But at least she's a warm one?

Shireen’s cheeks feel numb as she follows Rickon up the path through the woods. She’s glad she listened to Rickon’s instructions to wear her warmest gear, even if she’d felt like a puffy lavender marshmallow when Rickon picked her up. 

She still feels like a puffy lavender marshmallow, but she’s a warm(ish), puffy lavender marshmallow so whatever. The fur on the edges of her hood gives her view a bit of a halo effect as she follows Rickon. It isn’t helped by the low levels of light given by the lantern-style flashlights both of them are carrying.

Rickon’s winter gear is surprisingly not black, like Shireen expected. His jacket is a bright, pure blue, which doesn’t really match the ochre pants at all. It is, however, screamingly visible even in low light which she figures is probably the point. He’s not bothered with his hood at all, just a knit hat with a skull and crossbones worked into it. Shireen has her hat under her hood, and her thrummed mittens for warmth.

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon when Rickon comes to a stop. 

“Okay, close your eyes,” he says, moving behind Shireen.

“You’re not going to push me off a cliff, are you?” 

“Funny.” Rickon covers her eyes with his hands for good measure and guides her forward. “Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

Shireen lets him shuffle them forward. She’s torn between enjoying the feel of him behind her, solid and strong, and trying very hard not to trip over something. 

“Okay, open,” Rickon says, as he removes his hands. 

Shireen gasps. 

They’re in a clearing on the side of the mountain — not too close to the edge, thankfully — and the sun is just cresting. The valley below is almost pure white, and the pale yellow light reflects and sparkles on the snow.

It’s absolutely worth waking up at the crack of dawn and hiking through bitter cold and darkness. 

“It’s beautiful,” Shireen finally says. It feels like an inadequate description.

“It’s one of my favorite spots,” Rickon says. He sinks into the snow, tugging Shireen to sit next to him, and starts digging in his backpack. “I hope you’re not too cold.”

“My nose, maybe.” Shireen nudges him with her elbow. “But it’s worth it.”

Rickon leans over and nudges his nose with her own. “Who needs noses?”

“Us, really.” Shireen giggles as he nuzzles against her face a little

“Overrated.” Rickon steals a kiss and then goes back to his pack. After a minute he pulls out a thermos and a plastic container. 

“And he feeds me too!” Shireen grins. 

“I’m a full service kinda guy.” Rickon hands over the thermos. 

It’s full of hot chocolate, rich and creamy. The container has muffins from Seven Sisters. Shireen smells pear and maple as Rickon opens it.

They don’t speak much as they watch the sun rise, though Shireen leans into Rickon and when she shivers a little, he shifts to sit behind her. Wrapped in Rickon’s arms, the cold feels very distant indeed. 

The birds start chirping as the light gets brighter. Shireen can hear rustles in the woods, spotting squirrels darting about. She even thinks she sees the orange fluff of a fox tail between the trees. Shireen snuggles back into Rickon and then turns to kiss him.

It doesn’t take long before the kisses get more heated. Shireen curses the layers of fabric between them, because trying to get close is impossible. 

“This was supposed to keep us from attacking each other,” Rickon mumbles against her skin. He’s shoved her hood back and is sucking gently on the sliver of skin between her ear and the top of her coat. 

“Points for effort.” Shireen gives a frustrated whine as she tries to hold onto him. Between her mittens and his puffy jacket, it’s not very effective. Nothing is very effective, and she can’t help shifting her legs together, trying to relieve the aching want between her thighs. 

Rickon groans. “Clearly it was a terrible idea.”

“Terrible but sweet.” 

“I can make this work,” Rickon mumbles. He rotates Shireen to face away from him again, and before she can complain, he’s taking off a mitten and sliding a hand down the waistband of her pants. 

“That was meant to be smoother,” Rickon says, after he’s scrabbled around a bit trying to find the waistband of the thermals Shireen has on underneath and she yelps at the coldness of his fingers. 

“You can make it up to me, I’m sure.” Shireen shifts again, leaning back on Rickon. There’s still an infuriating distance from the thickness of their layers, and she can’t quite kiss him the way she’d like.

Shireen’s displeasure at that is somewhat lessened, however, as Rickon finally manages to slide his fingers into her underwear. His fingertips are warming up quickly, which is no surprise because Shireen feels like she’s burning up from the center, never mind the cold outside. 

It brings up the memories of Littlefinger’s, only better, because they’re alone and nobody is there to interrupt as Rickon strokes her. He whispers in her ear, asking if it’s okay and Shireen can only gasp and nod frantically in response. Rickon’s fingers are rough, catching slightly on her skin and Shireen arches toward him. 

She feels more than hears the low groan he lets out as he finally finds her clit and Shireen keens so loudly a flock of birds take flight from a nearby tree. 

There’s not exactly much room for him to maneuver under the winter layers of clothing, but Rickon seems to know exactly how to rub and touch Shireen until she’s clenching her hands into fists and moaning almost uncontrollably. When she finally comes, Shireen would swear she sees stars bursting in front of her eyes before she collapses back onto Rickon. 

She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, until she starts getting cold again and Rickon reluctantly pulls his hand away. He licks his fingers before putting his mitten back on and Shireen clenches her thighs together at the sight.

“We should go back,” Rickon says. “Before you freeze.”

“But what about you?” Shireen doesn’t know exactly how she’d manage to do anything with both of them still clothed, but she feels faintly embarrassed at not reciprocating.

“I’m fine.” Rickon gives her a grin. “I’ll take a raincheck though.” 

“When we’re somewhere with heat,” Shireen agrees. Her legs feel a little wobbly when she stands, and Rickon looks like he wants to say something. But he refrains, probably because Shireen glares and punches him in the arm when he opens his mouth. 

By the time they get back to the car, Shireen’s toes have gone numb as well as her ears and nose, but her heart is warm enough that it doesn’t matter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my sweet horny babies. Poor Rickon a little, but I think he would prefer not to get frostbite on his dick, so ... yeah. 
> 
> Rickon's winter gear is, as Shireen observed, visible with the goal of making sure he can be found if he collapses out in the snow somewhere. Wear highly visible clothing if you hike in areas that aren't well-trafficked, especially if you go alone! 
> 
> [Pear maple muffins](http://www.inerikaskitchen.com/2011/10/maple-pear-muffins.html) which I have not yet made but are definitely going on my list.


	78. Tradition!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne runs into Jaime at the coffee shop, and he's strangely intent on getting her to join in the town's ridiculous series of festivals.

Brienne is quietly enjoying her latte and an almond cream scone the next time she runs into Jaime Lannister. Or he runs into her, really, at Wildling's with two kids. The kids are deposited in a circle of chairs occupied by Shireen and Ygritte and Jaime stands awkwardly in the center of the coffee shop looking lost. 

Brienne knows it's going to happen before it does, and sure enough his eyes find her and he heads her way.

Brienne wonders if she has time to hide the scarf she's still stubbornly knitting away on, because Sansa is right and it does start to seem relaxing after a while, but decides she doesn't. 

"You should come see Brenna," Jaime says, as he sits down.

A stab of fear goes through Brienne. "Is she doing okay?"

"Oh, oh no!" Jaime seems to realize how his words could have sounded. "She's fine. Great, even. I just thought, you know, you might ... miss her?"

Brienne does miss Brenna, even though she's trying not to, because she really can't get attached to all of the animals that come through the shelter. 

"I'm glad to hear she's doing well," Brienne says, instead of answering.

Jaime nods a few times, then sits back. The silence that descends feels awkward and Brienne is wondering if she should just go home when Jaime speaks again.

"I think I owe you an apology?" Jaime scratches the back of his neck, seeming less self-assured than any other time Brienne has seen him. "I don't know what I said or did on New Year's, but I wasn't trying to offend you in any way."

Brienne cringes, thinking back on it. She'd reacted too harshly, she knows that. Ellaria has lots of opinions on why Brienne does that, but mostly Brienne knows it's not a good idea to let people see when they've wounded you.

"It's fine," she says. 

"I'm sure you and Addam would be great together," Jaime says, sounding like he means nothing of the sort.

"We're not dating," Brienne says. She wishes she could go back in time and destroy that stupid photo before Varys printed it. Why does everyone in town need to interfere in her life? "He's a nice guy, but not for me."

"Oh good," Jaime says. Which doesn't make a lot of sense. "I mean, I'm sorry it didn't work out."

Brienne shrugs. 

She doesn't say she didn't expect it to, even though she thinks it, which Brienne imagines should count as a therapy win. 

Jaime offers a little half-smile. Then he looks down at his hands.

"I, uh, I saw you coming out of Ellaria's," he says.

Brienne is suddenly gripped by the desire to crawl under her chair.

"I wasn't spying or anything! I was taking the kids, and I saw you and I just ... I didn't want you to think I was keeping it from you? That I knew?" Jaime rambles on. "I mean, it's not a big deal or anything, lots of people see Ellaria, and it's not anything you should have to keep secret. If you are, even. Maybe you're not." 

Is Brienne keeping it a secret? Her friends know. At least, some of them do. Depending on how you classify friends. Brienne's still a little fuzzy on how you know when friendship happens. 

"How are the kids doing?" She asks, because that seems like a much safer line of conversation. 

It proves to be a good idea, too, because Jaime lights up when he talks about how much Tommen loves the kittens, and how Ellaria thinks they're a useful tool for Tommen to express emotions without opening himself up to criticism. And how Myrcella is being difficult and bratty in ways Jaime thinks she shouldn't be yet, because she's barely a teenager. 

"I just want us to have time together as a family," Jaime says, sounding so much like Brienne's father that she has to laugh a little.

Jaime looks startled, and Brienne feels like she has to tell him why, how her father talks about wanting to have a family to spend time with when he's nagging Brienne to date someone and settle down. 

"Isn't that what everyone wants?" Jaime asks.

"Not everyone gets it, though," Brienne points out. "Sometimes it's better just to accept where you are."

Jaime gives her a very odd look, then abruptly changes subjects to ask if Brienne is doing any of the events at the Winter Carnival. When Brienne expresses her ignorance of the entire festival, Jaime gets animated again, describing the different competitions, from ice sculpting to sled races and a whole lot of town togetherness.

Asha had definitely not mentioned Westeros had a strange and deep love of town events when she'd convinced Brienne to move here. 

"I don't really do ... ice," Brienne says. "Or snow."

Jaime just scoffs. "You're in the north now, you have to!" 

"Or I could just stay inside until May," Brienne says. 

"You sound like Myrcella," Jaime retorts. Brienne can't help making a face at that, and Jaime laughs so loud people turn to look, which makes Brienne turn red and slouch in her chair.

Jaime, of course, seems not to notice, but then he's not likely to have been made fun of. Not looking like he does. And even at a high volume, his laugh sounds pleasant, like something you'd want to hear over and over.

“Besides,” Jaime says. “If you stay in until May, you’ll also miss the Valentine’s festival and the flower festival and the Easter festival.”

Brienne’s eyebrows climb higher with every festival he lists.

“That’s a lot of festivals.”

“Tradition?” Jaime offers.

“In our little village of Westeros,” Brienne can’t help muttering, before humming the first few bars of Fiddler on the Roof. 

Jaime laughs again, quieter but delighted. 

“We haven’t stuck any musicians on the rooftops. Yet.” Jaime scratches his head. “Maybe don’t say that near Jon Arryn. He’s determined to do something to put us on the map.”

Brienne thinks of the tourists that swarm Tarth every summer and grimaces. “Careful what you wish for.” 

“But you should come to the festival,” Jaime says. “It’s really something and it’s nice to be part of the town.”

He looks so earnest when he says it, like it’s something he’s been somehow denied. Brienne breathes deeply and tries to remember Ellaria’s urging to take people at their word and not look for hidden traps. (“Unless it’s Ramsay Bolton,” Ellaria had said. “And then you should absolutely run in the other direction.”)

“I”ll stop by,” Brienne says. 

Jaime beams in a way that seems disproportionate to their conversation. 

Brienne tries not to dwell on it after he leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to elizadunc, whose edits make this story much easier to read.
> 
> The almond cream scones are a creation of a local vegetarian restaurant/bakery. They're great, falling somewhere between US and UK scones — not as heavy as US scones typically are but with a nice sweetness and flavor. I really miss them. Maybe I'll get one in 2022 when this shit possibly maybe reopens ... haha.
> 
> Look at Jaime trying! Look at poor oblivious Brienne! Who is trying too, even if she has a whole lot of things to work through. 
> 
> Ellaria's comment on Ramsay could be slightly unprofessional, but let's assume the information she has on him is not from privileged conversations that would be kept confidential but general town talk. 
> 
> In other news, in case a pandemic, a president laying the groundwork to call this fall's election a fraud if he loses, a country deciding the pandemic is over when there's zero evidence of that, and massive civil rights demonstrations weren't enough going on, I am somehow suddenly dealing with a flea infestation. Even though the cats and myself are indoor only. SO ITCHY. And the kitten is mad that I grabbed her to try to weigh her — if I'm correct, she's gone from 4.5 to 7.5 lbs in about 3 months which SEEMS like a lot? But at least means I can buy 2 weight classes of flea treatment instead of 3. So I must share that Lady Sansa is a Very Big Kitten Girl now, and she is very proud of that.
> 
> You're singing Fiddler on the Roof now, and I'm not sorry.


	79. I'm A Creep, I'm A Weirdo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya doesn't think much about Gendry showing up at Syrio's. But then he just ... keeps showing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to elizadunc for her beta-ing, and for gracefully accepting the chapters that get thrown at her at irregular intervals.

The first time Gendry shows up at Syrio’s, Arya doesn’t really think much of it. He doesn’t stay long, just pokes around the shelves, and asks her a few questions before leaving. Though he does insist on giving her a hug as he leaves, leaving Arya confused and embarrassed.

She doesn’t expect to see him again, but she’s busy arranging a display of fragile teacups when the door chimes and there he is. Gendry looks improbably large in the shop, which is crammed with shelves and displays so tightly packed Arya has to turn sideways to some areas. Gendry looks like he might accidentally send a shelf flying with one stray move. 

Gendry wanders around the furniture section for a bit, while Syrio smirks at Arya from the counter. 

Arya considers trying to duck into the back corner full of everyday dishware, which is certainly too tightly packed with breakable items for Gendry to follow, but he catches her eye before she can move.

Gendry ambles over and casts an eye over the display of colorful china Arya has been dusting. 

“Teacups?” The amount of doubt he manages to pack into one word is impressive.

“I don’t get to pick what needs cleaning and organizing.” Arya considers the cups. She’d probably break one if she tried to drink from it, but she manages to be careful here at work. 

Sansa would probably like some of them, actually. Arya should remember that when it’s time for her birthday. 

“What do you want, anyway?” Arya folds her arms, ignoring the way that makes the feather duster — because Syrio insists it’s the best way to clean delicate items — stick up by her head like some sort of absurd plumage. 

From the way he smirks, Gendry does not miss that detail.

“Nice customer service, very impressive.” 

“You’re not a customer.” Arya shoves past him, making her way to the part of the store with old books. They’re also in need of dusting, and she hasn’t had a chance to check the latest acquisitions. “You aren’t going to buy anything.”

She’s still mad she didn’t find the antique text on embalming before Roose Bolton did. She wasn’t about to fight him for it, though, not when he got that weird, creepy half-smile on his face and caressed it like it was his lover.

Ew.

She quickly shakes her head to clear that mental picture. Arya never wants to think about Roose Bolton having a lover ever again.

There’s a new book on surgically de-stinking skunks that Arya grabs off the shelf. It looks hilarious and Asha would definitely appreciate it. 

Gendry wrinkles his nose at the cover. Arya retaliates by swiping the feather duster in his direction, and he sneezes violently when a cloud of dust hits him.

Unfortunately, Arya’s miscalculated and she starts sneezing too, a progressively high-pitched series of noises.

Gendry starts laughing even while he’s still sneezing, and she hopes he chokes, but of course he doesn’t.

“You squeaked!” Gendry gets out, between laughing. 

Arya musters all of her dignity. “I sneezed.”

“With a _squeak_.”

“If you’re not buying anything, get out,” Arya orders. She expects him to fight, but Gendry just laughs again and reaches out to tug on a strand of her hair and exchanges a nod with Syrio before leaving. 

“Opening your eyes is all that is needing,” Syrio says, after Arya gripes about it while they’re unpacking a donation from some estate. “The head plays tricks but the eyes see true.”

He refuses to elaborate on what that means, just smirks at Arya in a truly infuriating way. It reminds her of when they first met, when Syrio was just her fencing coach and not her boss and weird, cryptic kind of friend. 

The third time Gendry stops by, in a span of about a week and a half, he has his hand shoved behind his back. 

Arya is busy shoving furniture around, because Syrio thinks the armoire in the back isn’t getting enough visibility and would sell faster out front. Never mind that it’s fucking huge. Arya’s hair is sticking out of her ponytail and she’s down to a tank top, even though it’s January, and she has sweat pouring down her back. 

Gendry corners her between a slightly moth-eaten loveseat and a bookshelf Arya’s smashed her toes with twice already. 

“I brought a snack?” he says, and takes his hands out from behind his back and shoves something at her.

Arya blinks at it. It looks like one of Gilly’s maple custard cups, the ones topped with sugared pecans. 

“We can trade, if you want.” Gendry’s got something chocolate-y in his hands. “But I remember you saying you don’t like chocolate as much.”

Arya blinks, because she _doesn’t_ like chocolate that much, not compared to other things, but she doesn’t remember telling Gendry that at all.

“You can be taking a break,” Syrio calls over, from where he is not at all subtly listening to them. “But if you get chocolate on my furniture, I cut you with my sword.”

Gendry looks suitably alarmed and scoots toward a plain wooden bench. Arya doesn’t think stains are going to do the loveseat any more damage than the moths already have, but whatever.

She’s already shoved a spoonful of custard into her mouth before she can’t hold back her words anymore.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m … Sansa or something.”

Gendry looks confused. Arya rolls her eyes.

“Why do you keep coming by? And why did you bring me food?”

“I thought you’d be hungry?” Gendry shrugs. “And it’s my break, so...”

“But why are you spending your break coming _here_?” The custard is really good. Arya eats faster, in case her questions make Gendry change his mind. 

“To see you.” 

“I already said I’d take you out shooting again, when it’s warmer. “ 

Now it’s Gendry rolling his eyes. 

“I’m not coming here because I’m worried about archery. I’m coming here because I want to see you and you haven’t given me your number.”

Arya blinks. And blinks again. She scrapes the last of the custard from her cup to buy time. “I don’t understand.” 

“What’s to understand?” Gendry seems genuinely baffled. 

“I’m not Sansa,” she says. “I’m not pretty or funny or flirty. People don’t just … bring me food and want to see me. Or kiss me.”

She lowers her voice on the last part, though apparently not enough. Syrio makes a noise like he’s swallowed a frog and then bends over the counter like he’s choking from trying not to laugh.

“I don’t want to kiss Sansa.” Gendry frowns. “And you are pretty and funny. And kissable.”

Arya knows she’s turning red. She hides behind her custard cup, licking the last bits from the inside so she doesn’t have to look at Gendry. She’s pretty sure at her age, she should have a better response to something like this. 

Gendry is staring at her with wide eyes when she finishes. 

“If I give you my number … you’re not gonna be weird are you? And like expect me to be all girly or some shit?”

Gendry’s voice is really weird and forced when he says no and Arya wonders if she’s fucked up already. Especially when he just sits there after she puts her number in his phone, like not even eating his food and just sort of clenching his jaw. 

Arya is about to remind him that he _just said_ he wouldn’t be weird and now he’s being super weird, but Syrio grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her to her feet. 

“Break over!” Syrio says cheerfully. He stares at the furniture display, considering.

“The armoire is blocking the rest,” Syrio decides. “Move it back.”

Arya groans. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gendry: NOT NOW BONER. 
> 
> Is Syrio torturing Arya for fun? Maybe a little. But in a nice, mentorly way. 
> 
> [Maple custard with sugared pecans.](https://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/maple-custards-sugared-pecans) I have not made this, but i want to. 
> 
> We have decreased the fleas here in the land of cats and yarn, but they are still awfully bitey. Ugh, fleas. Why must they exist?


	80. Not Gonna Matter If You Fall Down Twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne braves the Winterfest carnival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to elizadunc for being a world-class beta!

Brienne figured arriving at the Westeros Winterfest a little after 10 in the morning would mean avoiding the crowds, but she couldn’t be more wrong. Although the event goes all day, by the time she gets to the Gift she has to park in one of the lower parking lots, far from the ranger station.

The town is, luckily, prepared for this and Brienne finds herself crammed into an actual sleigh with several other arrivals and hauled up to the main area by a team of Clydesdales. 

When they reach the meadow and ranger station, Brienne is hit with a wall of noise and the smell of chocolate, maple and something spicy permeating the air. She’s last out of the sleigh, and Brienne can’t help staring at the scene in front of her.

There are several roped off areas where people are building snow sculptures, a number of booths, a pond already filling with ice skaters and a large bonfire in the center of the meadow. Brienne can hear shrieks from somewhere to her left, and oddly chainsaws as well. 

The roped off areas seem to be divided by age, and Brienne can see the range of expertise as she gets over. On one end, small children are busy smushing snow together with mittened hands and plastic pails, while on the opposite end, adults are using elaborate molds, rulers, chisels and paintbrushes as they build. 

The first stop Brienne makes is Gilly’s booth where Gilly and two women (presumably her sisters) are busy deep-frying maple doughnuts and rolling them in cinnamon and sugar. The treat is crisp and sweet when Brienne bites into it. 

There’s time to kill until Brienne is supposed to meet her father, and she strolls past the snow sculptors. She sees Grey in the adult area, carefully leveling a bank of snow while Missandei watches with a small smile. Margaery is also competing, though Sansa is nowhere to be seen. 

She runs into Shireen and Dany just past the booth where Bran and a slight, harried looking woman are mixing up bowls of snow cream. 

Shireen insists on taking them up to the hill behind the ranger station, where Brienne discovers the source of the screams she heard earlier. A large snow tube area has been set up, and children and adults alike are hurling themselves down the slope with enthusiasm. 

“Do you think it’s weird how into festivals they are here?” Brienne asks Dany, as Shireen flops on a tube and grabs the rope tow to the top of the slope.

Dany shrugs.

“I went to a penis festival once,” she says. “In Japan. That was probably stranger.”

Brienne really doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I mean, it’s a fertility festival, really, with a very interesting history,” Dany says. “But I could have gone my entire life without seeing my eighty-year-old professor sucking on a penis lollipop.”

Brienne blinks, and then turns her attention to where Shireen is careening down the hill, curls flying out behind her from under her hat. Shireen manages to look like some sort of snow fairy come to life, Brienne can’t help thinking, even in a giant rubber snow tube, with her wide-legged white pants and cozy pale green hat and mittens, pale blue coat belted securely around her waist. Even Daenerys, who looks less at home in the cold, manages to look delightful, wrapped in a vibrant teal coat edged with white fur. 

Brienne is shoved into a drab men’s coat, though she at least has the lovely blue accessories Sansa gave her. She still looks more like a dull rock than a frolicking winter sprite. 

She also _feels_ like a dull rock, but that’s probably because her feet are going numb.

Uncomfortably, Brienne hears an echo of Ellaria’s voice in her head, asking Brienne why she feels like she doesn’t deserve nice things.

 _It’s not that I don’t deserve them_ , Brienne thinks stubbornly, _it’s that they don’t even exist for women like me_.

Shireen makes a few more passes down the mountain while Brienne and Dany watch, chatting idly about their respective businesses and pets. Dany is still trying to find a less obvious reason to go to Drogo’s gym, which makes Brienne feel slightly better about her angst over Addam. Surely no man would be upset that Dany wanted to see them, but she’s still fretting all the same. 

Brienne is desperately grateful when Dany suggests they go inside to the hot chocolate bar when Shireen finally hands her tube back and brushes snow off her clothing. 

Brienne recognizes Benjen Stark as one of the rangers working, and he gives her a little nod and half smile that has Dany poking her in her side with barely disguised glee. They fill their cups and make their way through — Brienne keeps it simple with marshmallows, a pirouette cookie and an extra drizzle of dark chocolate syrup, while Dany opts for cinnamon and chili powder and Shireen creates an elaborate concoction involving caramel and chocolate syrups, toasted coconut, a truly enormous mound of whipped cream and a garnish of crumbled shortbread cookies. 

They commandeer a corner with comfy chairs where Shireen dreamily describes her recent date with Rickon. Any jealousy Brienne might feel is wiped away by how truly delighted and surprised Shireen sounds. 

“He sounds so sweet,” Dany says, wistfully. “I mean, I wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he also rescued a puppy in the dog training class, so I guess I’m not surprised.”

Brienne half-listens to the conversation as she gazes around the room. She sees Sansa’s parents in one corner, heads bent together over cups of cocoa, and the Mormonts crowded onto a couch with a board game. Tyene Sand is making a snow suit look elegant, and Brienne even sees Ellaria, looking surprisingly disheveled. The therapist is surrounded by three young girls, and accompanied by a shockingly handsome man with a small girl perched on his shoulders. Ellaria is laughing and it’s really surprising to see how human Brienne’s counselor seems outside of the office. 

By the time Selwyn arrives, Shireen and Dany have agreed to attend a pilates class at Vaes Dothrak (Shireen saw a sign for it) and are trying to convince Brienne to join them. Brienne still hasn’t figured out what makes pilates any different from stretching, which she can do at home for free.

Selwyn greets all three of them with hugs before dragging them outside where the scent of pork permeates the air. A decidedly creepy old man is serving BBQ out of a large smoker. He’s also glaring at Gilly, who is glaring defiantly back. Brienne feels almost guilty about getting a sandwich. 

Shireen and Dany head off to their respective obligations while Brienne and her father take in the sights. He insists on tubing in the snow, and they follow the sound of chainsaws to a lower meadow which contains a number of people carving ice and a lake where more are ice fishing. Asha waves from her spot, where she has a line dangling into the frozen waters and her feet propped up on a large igloo cooler, beer in hand. 

One of the contestants is carving a large swan, Brienne notices, and another is working on an ice giant so large the man needs a ladder to work on the top. 

She pulls her father away before he can get any ideas. 

It’s a nice day, overall, too nice. So Brienne shouldn’t be surprised when they’re watching the judges nod kindly at the under-five snow sculptors and she hears a loud exclamation from behind her. 

“You came!” Jaime is beaming from under a red hat. His nose is equally red, though it somehow doesn’t detract from his handsomeness. 

Life is unfair that way.

Any hopes of gracefully extricating herself are dashed when Selwyn gets a delighted grin and asks who Brienne’s friends are and she finds herself introducing the Lannisters. Tommen seems awed by Selwyn, which is not uncommon with young kids. More than one has asked if he’s a real giant. 

When Brienne was four, before kids figured out how strange and ugly she was, Selwyn had convinced one of her daycare friends that he was Jack’s giant, from the story, and given her a magic bean. The girl had cried for days when it produced a vigorous but decidedly normal-sized plant, rather than stalk she could climb into the sky. 

Jaime, of course, seems completely at ease, shaking hands with Selwyn and prompting both kids to respond.

“We’re going ice skating,” he says, gesturing at the shack renting skates. “Do you want — you could come with us?”

Brienne blinks at him a few times, before Selwyn nudges her in the side. 

“I don’t know how to skate,” she finally mumbles. Jaime’s smile drops slightly for a minute, but then he shakes his head.

“Neither do we! I’m sure it will be fine.”

Myrcella rolls her eyes. 

“You know, that’s how most bad ideas start,” she informs her uncle. 

“That sounds fun,” Selwyn says. He fumbles with his hat for a minute. “You should go, starlight, I have to get back to the restaurant anyway.”

“I thought you took the afternoon off?”

“Oh, well.” Selwyn squints at something in the distance. “Young Podrick seemed awfully nervous, I don't want to leave him too long.”

Brienne is pretty sure her father said something entirely different when they made plans, but before she can say anything, he’s giving both kids big hugs and wandering off. Before she knows it, Brienne is being gently herded towards the skating rink while Tommen cheerfully updates her on the status of the cats. 

“Ser Pounce’s favorite toy is blue string,” Tommen says. “He loves blue string. But Lady Whiskers likes the gold sparkly ball.”

“Or the plastic from milk cartons,” Myrcella says. “Why do we even buy them toys?” 

“They need toys!” Tommen seems outraged at his sister’s comment. “And Brenna doesn’t like any toys at all, even though i keep trying.”

“Brenna is old,” Brienne says. “She probably won’t play very much. But you might try a laser pointer. Dany will have them at Dragon’s Egg.” The last part is directed at a perplexed-looking Jaime.

The skating shack is manned by the boisterous redhead from the elementary school. He starts to loudly proclaim how big Brienne is in a booming voice, as she quietly requests skates in her size, and Brienne turns the shade of a lobster before Tommen distracts the man. 

Apparently the burly redhead is a teacher, which strikes Brienne as mildly terrifying. But Tommen seems to like him well enough. 

“I think this is a bad idea,” Brienne says, as she gingerly steps on the pond, wobbling on her skates. 

Tommen crashes to the ice almost immediately and Jaime follows as he tries to help the boy up. Myrcella laughs openly at both of them. 

“Bend your knees!” The redheaded man shouts. “And glide. Don’t pick your feet up!”

Myrcella follows his instructions, slowly making progress on the outer edge of the pond. Brienne tries it as well, finding that if she tightens her core muscles, she feels less precarious. 

By the time Jaime and Tommen have gotten themselves upright again, Myrcella is halfway around the pond, and Brienne has managed to go a short distance. 

“This looks a lot easier on TV,” Jaime says as they slowly wobble their way around the pond. His face is red from exertion, even though they’re barely moving.

“They already know how to skate on TV,” Brienne points out, and Jaime makes a sour face at her. 

Eventually, Brienne figures out how to move her feet enough to do something that actually feels like actual skating. Myrcella joins up with a crowd of pre-teen girls and is quickly making loops arm and arm with her friends. Eventually the girls come and collect Tommen as well, cooing over him and dragging him to the center of the ice where one of the girls is skating backwards and doing small jumps. 

“It’s nice, though, isn’t it?” Jaime looks over at Brienne. “Skating and all that.”

“I suppose.” Brienne watches the girls in the center, trying to figure out how to pick up speed. She almost falls down but rights herself with an alarming lurch.

Jaime reaches over to grab her hand and steady her.

“I”ve got it,” Brienne mumbles. 

“Don’t want to risk your ankles,” Jaime says. He tugs on her hand. “Impressive save, though.”

Then he almost topples over and Brienne has to brace herself to keep them both from falling flat. 

Brienne tries not to pay attention to see if people are watching, because she surely looks like a cow on ice. But when she tries to move away, Jaime clutches her hand tighter and moans about losing his footing. So she stays. They manage a few laps that way, half falling and clinging for balance. 

Until Tommen skates toward them, beaming as he demonstrates his new skill, only to get a look of terror as he realizes he doesn’t know how to stop.

They land in the snow, at least, and Tommen is on top of the heap so Brienne only has to worry about crushing Jaime with her bulk. The redhead from the skating hut rushes over, smirking and asking Jaime if he’s damaged from the incident. After that, Brienne makes her excuses and leaves as quickly as possible, averting her eyes from the crowds. Jaime calls after her, but she pretends not to hear.

She doesn’t know what to say when Selwyn asks her how the afternoon went. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snow cream is excellent — take fresh snow and mix in heavy cream, maple syrup or sugar, and add vanilla. Snow ice cream! Sadly haven't had enough snow in years to make any — clearly I need to move further north. 
> 
> The penis festival is real and I kinda want to go.
> 
> I also want to have a massive hot chocolate bar.
> 
> Ellaria is with Oberyn and their four daughters, the youngest of whom is in Shireen's class. 
> 
> Blue string is also Lady Sansa's favorite toy. it's like a stiff shoelace that used to be a corkscrew but has been played with so much it's not really shaped, but she carries it ALL OVER and merps at me to tell me she's caught it. Blue string is an excellent toy.
> 
> Jaime is holding onto Brienne for balance, yes, that's totally it, just balance. 
> 
> Finally, a question for you readers — going forward, town festivals will be downtown-based, like the Christmas party and I have them planned out. While I try to work in as much to the story, would you also be interested in hearing more details about each store and their offering in the notes? Because I can't always fit it all in? Or link to recipes? Or am I the only one who cares?


	81. Sneaking Out Late, Tapping On Your Window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion hasn't really thought ahead to the idea of meeting Tysha's father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to elizadunc, the amazing beta reader who makes my stories sparky!

It isn’t that Tyrion doesn’t _want_ to meet Tysha’s father eventually. It’s just that he has no actual plans to do so.

He’s not exactly a meet-the-parents kind of guy, really. In addition to the fact that a good chunk of Westeros hates the Lannister family for borderline usurious business practices, Tyrion knows he has a reputation.

A well-deserved reputation, admittedly, but whoring and drinking aren’t exactly something to be proud of.

Or so he’s been told.

Plus the whole dwarf thing.

Tyrion vividly remembers his father telling him, in no uncertain terms, that he should get sterilized as soon as he turned 18, so he couldn’t pass his genes onto his children. Or be taken advantage of by escorts looking for an easy payday. Tywin would have had it done sooner, if the doctors hadn’t refused. Tyrion is certain his father isn’t the only one to harbor such ideas. 

A biology teacher in high school had, after all, cheerfully used Tyrion as an example of genetics and Punnett squares, noting that he has a 50% chance of passing achondroplasia onto his hypothetical children. 

It’s always been clear that Tyrion isn’t meant for things like love and families. 

At any rate, Tyrion doesn’t plan on meeting Tysha’s family. Even if things seem to be going very well, shockingly well, even. Tysha has spent more nights at Tyrion’s than she has at her own place ever since their third date. 

The one where she’d suggested cooking dinner at his place and then emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but an apron.

The filet mignons had wound up becoming bricks of charcoal and they’d only barely silenced the smoke alarm before it set off the entire building’s system but Tyrion has zero regrets. 

Tyrion figures at some point, Tysha is going to realize she can do better, but he’s certainly planning on enjoying things as long as he can. 

He’ll never admit it to Jaime, but there is something nice about a woman he can talk to as well as fuck, about the moments he and Tysha spend walking around town or the lazy mornings where he reads while Tysha embroiders. 

So when Tysha says she needs to swing by her house to grab some more clothes, as they’re heading home from a visit to the Lebanese restaurant that’s an hour away but well worth the drive, Tyrion assumes he’ll stay in the car.

Tysha, apparently, assumes otherwise.

Tyrion stares up at the porch, trying once again to free his arm from Tysha’s grip.

“I really am fine waiting, it isn’t even that cold,” he says.

“It’s cold enough.” Tysha frowns. “And if my dad gets talking, heaven knows how long I’ll be here.”

Tysha gets that look on her face, the one that means she’s not going to back down, and Tyrion has no choice but to clamber up the steps behind her. 

His hopes that Tysha’s father has gone to bed — it is after 10 — are dashed as soon as they step inside the house. 

It’s certainly unlike any house Tyrion has been in. It’s small, for one, and there’s no entry, they just step straight into a living room covered with wood paneling and disturbingly green carpet. Through a doorway, Tyrion can see a kitchen furnished in a similar shade of green, and another doorway leads to a small hallway. The furniture is shades of orange and gold, and there’s an older man in the armchair, watching television. A wheelchair is squeezed next to the recliner, a heavily embroidered pillow tossed on it. 

“This is all crap,” the man mutters as they step in. “Over a hundred channels and they can’t find anything better to do than yell at each other.”

“Daddy, I told you to avoid the news channels,” Tysha says. She sighs a little. 

“News?” The man snorts. “This isn’t news. Walter Cronchite was news. Dan Rather was news. This is a sideshow.”

Tyrion can’t help thinking Tysha’s father has a point. 

“That’s why I tell you not to watch it!” Tysha throws her hands up. 

“Well, what else am I supposed to do, when you’re out gallivanting with that boy of yours?” Tysha’s father still hasn’t looked away from the screen. “I’d be up for Monopoly.”

“We already agreed Monopoly doesn’t work with just two people, and I’m only here for a few minutes.” Tysha bites her lip. “I brought Tyrion, Daddy.”

That finally gets her father’s attention, and he drops the remote to look over. Tyrion gives a little wave, unsure exactly what he’s meant to do in this situation. 

Tysha’s father gives him an appraising look. 

“Well, he’s shorter than the last one,” he finally says. “Come over here, boy, let me see you.”

Being called boy in his 30s rankles a bit, but Tyrion makes his way over — god, the carpet truly is hideous — and offers his hand. 

“Duncan Crofter.” Tysha’s father introduces himself with a handshake strong enough to make Tyrion wince as he returns the greeting. 

“Tyrion and I were just coming back from dinner,” Tysha says brightly. “And I wanted to pick up a few things.” 

She ducks into the short hallway, and opens up one of the three doors. Tyrion gets a glimpse of a crowded room with wood furniture and peach walls, before his attention is drawn back to Duncan. 

“So, how do you earn a living?” Duncan gives Tyrion a skeptical look when he brings up the bookstore, clearly doubting its ability to provide a steady income. “Books can’t be that popular.” Tyrion sets aside his offense on behalf of literature and braces himself.

“Well, I used to work for the bank, and I have quite a bit of money saved up,” Tyrion explains, delicately avoiding the mention of his last name. “And my mother passed away giving birth to me, and I have a trust fund from her estate.”

“Trust fund.” Duncan rolls his eyes. “Never had to earn your keep with the sweat of your brow, have you?”

“Given my stature, I find my brain a more valuable asset,” Tyrion says honestly. 

“Good.” Duncan nods. “Knowing your own strengths and weaknesses is important. And I suppose somebody has to do the numbers.” The last part is said grudgingly, like he can’t quite bear to admit it.

Tyrion blinks in surprise. 

“Now, you’ve been taking up quite a bit of my daughter’s time,” Duncan continues. “So what are your intentions.”

Tysha’s reappearance saves Tyrion from responding. 

“Daddy!” Tysha drops the battered backpack she’s carrying on the floor and turns pink. “I’m a grown woman.”

“And that justifies abandoning your poor father to his own devices?” 

“Osha comes by every day,” Tysha says. “And it’s not like I’m never here.” 

“Hardly ever,” Duncan mutters. “Bad enough I’m stuck here with nothing but this damned idiot box for company. They used to make good shows, you know. Leave It To Beaver. Gilligan’s Island. Now everything’s about murder and crime and people being terrible.”

“You could get a hobby,” Tysha retorts. “And we’ll find some more books, Tyrion helped pick out the one I got you for Christmas. You liked that, didn’t you?”

“It was all right.” Duncan switches his attention back to the TV. “You know they have a whole network about nothing but crime? Crime! People just want to sit around watching criminals all day.”

“Then don’t watch it.” Tysha sounds like she’s had this conversation several times before. “Do you need my help getting into bed before I go, or can you manage yourself?”

“I’m paralyzed, not an infant,” Duncan snaps. Then he shakes his head. “Your mother must be rolling over in her grave, me letting you go off with a man you aren’t married to.”

Tyrion does his best to disappear into the ugly gold sofa cushions. 

“Mama showed me your marriage license once,” Tyrsha retorts. “I was born five months after you got married, so I don’t think either of you gets to decide a thing.” 

Tysha bends over to kiss her father on the cheek and slip the remote out of his hand. 

“I’ll come by for lunch tomorrow,” she says. “Stop watching things you hate and get some sleep.”

Duncan is still fussing as they head out, Tyrion awkwardly stumbling out a farewell as the man grunts in response. 

“Well,” Tysha says brightly, as they step back onto the porch. “That could have gone worse.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Tyrion.
> 
> The Crofter's house is circa 1970s, since they don't strike me as having had a ton of money or time to decorate. I imagine her parents furnished the house when they got it, after they got married, and it never changed much. 
> 
> Sort of like my parents would have been if the Great Dane hadn't chewed the ugly old sofa up as a puppy. I'm still not convinced my mother didn't direct her that way — my dad didn't want to spend money to replac ea perfectly good sofa. I think my mom also started taking a wrench to the dryer when I was in high school — it was from when appliances were built to last, so still ran, but she desperately wanted one with more features.
> 
> Meanwhile, my Maytag washer (same brand) has started having the agitator come loose after owning it maybe 5 years? I mean, I fix it myself, but I'm sure a lot of people would hire a repair person and this is turning into my rant about planned obsolescence which you are not here for, readers!
> 
> The TV rant is basically My Dad who wants TV to resemble the 1950s and watch movies like Gidget Goes to the Beach and Bridge Over the River Kwai and Petticoat Junction. 
> 
> If you don't follow Dan Rather on Twitter, you should. He's gotten delightfully salty in his old age and I love it.


	82. Push It Real Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen and Dany figure out an excuse to check out Vaes Dothrack. It goes ... not as anticipated.

Pilates class seemed like a really good idea when they first discussed it. Luckily with this class, Dany has managed to find an excuse to go to Vaes Dothrak, and she’s even sprung for new workout gear for the occasion.

Okay, fine, she’s been looking for a reason to buy dragon scale leggings for a while. 

Anyway, Dany expected something like yoga, and judging by the expression on Shireen’s face when they stepped into the studio, she had too.

Dany certainly had not expected a floor with carefully arrange wooden frames that look too much like torture devices to be comfortable.

And now she’s on her back, feet hooked into a strap attached to one end of the frame, trying desperately to pull her feet into the air while Irri frowns at ther.

Irri has the kind of abs Dany can’t quite believe are real, and she seems to think Dany isn’t putting in enough effort. Never mind that there’s a river of sweat running down Dany’s back and her braid is soaked. 

“I think I’m going to die,” Shireen moans, once Irri has given up on them both and gone to coach another student, who has somehow managed to get her legs at a 90 degree angle despite the resistance from the band.

Dany whimpers in response. 

Irri doesn’t let them get away with slacking off, stalking past and growling that if they’re able to chat, they aren’t working hard enough, and by the end of the class, all of Dany’s limbs feel like limp spaghetti noodles. 

Dany knows she’s gotten out of shape since moving to Westeros — no field work means no hiking or scrambling around attempting to find reptiles in awkward places. But it isn’t like she’s a couch potato, so surely a workout shouldn’t hurt this badly. 

“I lift fifty pound children regularly, why do my arms hurt so much?” Shireen is laying on the floor next to her frame, where she’d managed to roll when Irri started packing up the devices. 

Dany only made it a few steps farther before succumbing to the lure of the floor herself.

“I hurt in muscles I didn’t even know existed,” she admits.

Irri strolls past them looking entirely too comfortable for someone who has been demonstrating exercises for the past hour. 

“There’s a cardio kick-boxing class coming up,” she informs them. “Unless you want to join them, you have to leave.”

The thought of attempting anything else physical right now makes Dany want to vomit. 

“Carry me?” Shireen whines, from where she’s still laying on the floor.

Dany snorts. “No chance.”

Of course, they run into Drogo as soon as they leave the studio. He grins broadly as Dany tries to hide her wince.

She’s not wearing any makeup, her hair is falling out of its braid and probably frizzing, she’s coated in sweat and she’s pretty sure she smells. This was _so_ not the plan.

“Ah, you’re trying Irri’s class!” Drogo grins. “Isn’t it great?”

“Is torture great?” Shireen says. 

Drogo laughs. Dany tries to edge towards the locker room in a subtle manner. 

“It was different,” she says, trying for politeness, or at least neutrality. 

“A lot of people love it,” Drogo says. “I’m more of a cross fit guy, but it’s a nice light workout.”

“Light,” Shireen says, faintly. 

“You should come to Cross Fit if you want a real challenge,” Drogo says. “Or Jhaqo’s boot camp.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dany says. Drogo grins widely before striding off to do … whatever it is gym owners do.

Dany has to lay on one of the locker room benches for a few minutes before she can summon the strength to shower, watching upside down as Shireen wrestles her way out of two sports bras. 

“He thinks that is a light workout?” Shireen manages, as she gathers her shower things from her locker. 

“His muscles are very big,” Dany says. “I’m tempted to join cross fit just to watch him lift things.” 

“Would it be worth the pain?” Shireen says, and then dumps Dany’s towel on her face when it’s clear Dany is seriously debating her answer. 

The hot water does feel good when Dany forces herself into one of the showers. She can hear Shireen humming in the next one over.

“If we come back, we’ll probably get better at it,” Dany muses. 

“Or we’ll die.” 

“I mean, probably not actually? I don’t think they’d stay open very long if people kept dying,” Dany says.

“Clearly most people here are in better shape than we are,” Shireen answers. 

It’s already seven pm, but Dany still takes time to carefully re-braid her hair and apply some mascara and lipstick while Shireen carefully rubs concealer on her face. Shireen had grimaced when Irri’d insisted she pull her hair back for class, instead of leaving her braid falling forward on her left side. 

Naturally, Drogo is nowhere to be seen as they leave, now that Daenerys looks like a presentable human being. One that smells like lemons instead of sweat.

“So if I get cheesecake, does that totally negate the workout I just did?” Shireen ponders, as they make it out to the street. 

Dany considers it as she notices the lights are still on at Seven Sisters, the smell of sugar tempting in the air. 

“No, I think that’s just the right reward,” she says.

Shireen grins. “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am indeed alive! Just somewhat brain dead and demoralized from the news. Vaguely contemplating how bad the US has to get before I can plead with other countries to allow me in. Sadly, journalist doesn't typically make shortage occupation lists which makes escape rather difficult. 
> 
> BUT I do have some chapters banked and am trying to coax myself into writing more. This story flows easier when I'm closer to real time writing so I think we may speed through the spring and festivals to catch up. It will feel much like the experience of living 2020, really blink and you're confused about how we got here. But with less pandemic. By which I mean none. 
> 
> Dragon scale leggings I basically picture as the mermaid tail kind you see. Very shiny. I've never taken pilates, so this is based off what the Google tells me.


	83. Can You Feel The Love Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Westeros go out for Valentine's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I am not dead nor have I dropped off the face of the planet! I meant to update this sooner but 2020 has been kicking my ass, y'all. Writing is like pulling teeth. Even reading is — I'm very cranky about everything. But I'm trying, and spooky season helps. We're going to speed through spring and summer here a bit, to get to all the fun fall and winter writing. Anyway, have some fluff!

Brienne has a plan for Valentine’s Day. And it does not involve celebrating — well, not really. But apparently it’s another occasion which Westeros lives to celebrate, and after Christmas the town had a near-unanimous agreement to transform the standard town hall event into something organized like the Christmas party, with the newly named Westeros Retail District hosting.

So Brienne’s original plan of staying home has been scrapped and her new plan involves sitting in the vet’s office with a selection of adoptable animals and treats made of lamb hearts for any dogs that come by with their humans. Sansa made a bunch of heart decorations with adoption photos for the shelter, and they’ve put some up in the lobby of the vet office as well. So Brienne will sit, under a banner proclaiming the importance of four-legged soulmates, and hand out treats and information. 

It isn’t that Brienne hates Valentine’s Day, although she knows people think she must. It’s just a day she considers it irrelevant to her life. The sting of being left out of school celebrations has long faded, and now she just tries to remember to avoid restaurants, which are always overcrowded and tend to attract drama. 

She makes it most of the way through the evening, with her plan. Across the way, she can see people coming and going from Obara’s, and Gilly dropped a cream puff over earlier — which was delicious — and it’s going fairly well. Several people have expressed interest in the dogs and cats, and a surprising number of couples with dogs have stopped in for treats. 

Brienne does not expect Asha and Sansa to burst through the door, arms linked, and declare it’s time for her to come join the party.

“I have to be here,” Brienne says, and then frowns. “And don’t you both have girlfriends you should be with right now?”

“They both have to do shifts at work too,” Asha says. “Theon will fill in here while you come with us.” 

Brienne can see Theon’s curly head behind the pair, and he looks even less enthused about the holiday than Brienne does. Asha takes a bite of what looks to be a popcorn ball, and mumbles something incomprehensible. 

“Besides, they’ll survive without us for a few minutes.” Sansa waves her hand, like Brienne’s objections are an annoying pest to be swatted away. 

Brienne feels a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. She hates pity more than anything. “You don’t have to,” she says, weakly. 

“Besides, we have to honor an even more important holiday,,” Sansa says. 

Brienne gives her a blank look.

“Galentines!” Sansa throws her hands out, like that means something.

Theon snorts.

“It’s from a TV show,” Asha explains, after she swallows her popcorn. “Apparently you spend time with your friends and eat breakfast food.”

“Asha, you beautiful, talented musk ox,” Sansa says. Then she eyes Brienne. “Come on.” Brienne does, because she doesn’t see much of a chance of successfully evading Sansa for long. Sansa and Asha bundle her between them and hustle her down the block. Asha insists on ducking into Happy Endings and collecting sex cards — which are apparently what Tyene is giving out and are meant to be offered to one’s partner as a gift. Brienne’s makes her blush and she doesn’t even know what the thing listed on Asha’s is, but she tries to pretend this is normal.

It turns out, Walda’s _does_ have breakfast food. Specifically, what Walda happily declares are Galentine’s waffles. They’re made in the shape of tiny hearts, which Brienne finds unnecessarily cutesy, but they’re also waffles so she can’t complain too much. 

“You’re a poetic, noble, land mermaid,” Sansa tells Brienne earnestly. Brienne blinks and decides to distract her by pointing out her brother, who is standing in front of Blushing Blooms looking terrified, rather than try to parse Sansa’s strange comments. 

Robb wonders how much Talisa will punch him if he gets her one of the roses Ros is handing out. 

Roses say love, but they also say Valentine’s Day, he thinks. She’s cranky enough already, stuck at Black and White and tired of snacking on the deviled strawberries they’re handing out. Robb offered to get her something else to eat — but maybe a rose would be nice too.

He decides to get the flower. If Talisa looks like she’s going to murder him when she sees it, he can always take it to his mom. Or Theon, if it doesn’t make him too twitchy. Theon used to love Valentine’s Day. 

Or Sansa. She’ll be celebrating with Margaery, but Robb knows she’s been over the moon about the town wanting to use the Christmas party as a model. She’d worked so hard on it, and Robb is pretty proud of his sister for how well it went. 

Everyone certainly seems to be loving the new Valentine’s festival. Robb sees what seems like the entire town, plus a good chunk of the neighboring towns, in the street. He stops in at City Hall and waves to his father while getting a tomato tart in the shape of a heart for Talisa, and at the hardware store to pick up a couple of bacon roses. 

He also stops in at Evenfall’s for some of the fresh oysters, but he’s not going to tell Talisa that because he knows she’s mad about not being allowed to eat sushi for the duration of her pregnancy. 

He also doesn’t plan on mentioning his stop at Littlefinger’s for a very strong, very cherry flavored shot. 

Rob’s last stops are Martell’s for fresh figs drizzled with honey and yogurt, and Syrio’s for heart-shaped meatloafs. Robb nearly drops his plate there, because he’s pretty sure he sees Arya wrapped in an embrace with the mechanic and Robb is going to burst out laughing if he stays.

He also doesn't want to see that, really. Sansa and Arya are both his little sisters but Arya is his _little_ sister, and Robb just doesn’t need to see some things, even if he is happy for her.

Arya doesn’t plan to have anything to do with Gendry on Valentine’s. She’s helping Syrio at the store, and he’s made a disturbing number of tiny, heart-shaped meatloafs and red onion jam. So Arya is smiling at customers and making sure nobody makes off with the entire tray and pointing out the displays of antique jewelry in case anyone needs a last minute gift.

Honestly Arya doesn’t understand all the excitement over this street party concept. Sure, she likes attending them, but it seems like a lot of work for all the stores to have something to give out.

Well, mostly. She saw Tyrion Lannister buying about fifteen bags of candy hearts at Tyrells, so clearly the amount of effort varies. 

The only reason Arya doesn’t try to insist Gendry leave at once — everyone is here, her family could see them and that’s the last thing Arya needs — is that he brings her a plate of cookies and desserts. Including one of her mother’s red velvet cupcakes, which Arya had been firmly told she was not allowed to steal when she stopped by during set up.

The chocolate cherry trifle from Tyrell’s is _really_ good. So are the fancy chocolate truffles from Renly Baratheon’s law office. Though none of them are as good as the apple tarts from Tarly’s. 

The tarts are shaped to look like roses, which Arya ignores, because they taste amazing.

Arya and Gendry both eye the chocolate protein balls from Vaes Dothrak warily, but they aren’t the worst thing Arya’s eaten.

She’s pretty sure chocolate shouldn’t taste chalky, though. 

So her guard is down when Gendry asks her to show him one of the old swords Syrio’s gotten in and she’s not really thinking when she leads him to it. Gendry barely gives the sword a glance before he’s wrapping his arms around her and Arya’s face is smushed against his coat. 

Gendry steps back, his cheeks turning pink as she makes a garbled sort of noise against his chest. 

“Sorry, I forget you’re so short,” he says.

“I’m not short, you’re overly tall,” Arya says, glaring up at him. He hasn’t let go of her, not entirely, but at least she’s not suffocating. 

“So I’d say happy Valentine’s day but I am kind of afraid you’ll hurt me,” Gendry says. 

“It’s a stupid holiday made up by card companies.” She grins up at him. “Did you know the real St. Valentine was supposed to be beaten to death, but he didn’t die so they beheaded him?”

“Romantic,” Gendry says dryly.

“I’m not Sansa,” Arya reminds him. 

“Come on, love’s not all bad,” Gendry says. He bends his knees a little, until they’re closer to eye level. “I mean, not totally.” 

Arya doesn’t get a chance to respond before Gendry is gently kissing her, and okay fine, he’s not completely off base. Kissing Gendry still seems strange, as a general concept, but he is nice and strong and he smells good and it makes Arya’s stomach lurch violently when he presses his lips against hers.

Not that she’d ever admit that out loud. 

She’s pretty sure Gendry knows anyway, considering the smug grin he gives her when they break apart and Syrio chases them out of the shop telling them to go have fun. 

Just because she likes kissing Gendry doesn’t mean Arya wants to go around acting like a sappy idiot. 

But it’s worth being kicked out when she looks through the window of Sew What and sees Shireen and Rickon, both concentrating very hard at whatever they’re doing, with tubes of glitter in their hands.

Arya pulls out her phone and snaps a few pictures. That’s definitely blackmail material right there.

Rickon looks adorably out of place in his black leather jacket and dirty jeans, as Shireen carefully sprinkles glitter on her candle holder.

“It’s really okay if you don’t want to stick around for this,” Shireen tells him. Again. They aren’t the only adults doing crafts, but Rickon still sticks out like a sore thumb. 

“Hey, I can do crafts,” Rickon says. He pours more glitter on his jar and frowns. 

“Don’t put too much on at once,” Tysha suggests, from where she’s floating around helping. 

There’s glitter in Rickon’s hair somehow, and Shireen wants to giggle. She’s not sure if that’s because of him or being able to celebrate Valentine’s, or because she’s already had several shots. 

Cupid’s Panties, they’re calling them at Littlefingers, and they’re chocolatey and strawberry-y and delicious. 

They also made Rickon lean over and whisper a couple of comments about Christmas and the Santa’s panties drink that have left heat coiling in Shireen’s stomach as they explore the stores. 

So far, Shireen has a rose tucked behind her ear, a small, decorated flower pot with a new succulent from the Garden Center (very smart, Shireen thinks, because decorating the tiny pots seems to be leading to most people purchasing a new plant like she did) and a purseful of handmade cards from students she’s run into.

Rickon has scored a coupon for a free round of bowling after beating Cassel’s heart toss in a very dramatic fashion. 

Shireen is glad that people are offering more than just food and drink this round. Not that she hasn’t enjoyed it all, especially the rose tea from the yarn shop, but it’s nice to give her stomach a break. 

Shireen taps excess glitter off her candle holder and smiles. There’s a perfectly outlined heart in the center, and the rest of the glass is coated in an even layer of pink glitter. 

Rickon tries to follow her lead, but his heart is wonky and there’s some drips of glue that lead to a rather lumpy effect with the red glitter. 

“We could get more bacon roses?” Shireen suggests, as Rickon frowns at his project. He shakes his head. “No, I’m fine.”

Shireen bites her lip. “I know this is girly, I’m sorry.”

“Shireen. Don’t be sorry.” Rickon nudges her in the side a little. “I don’t care if it’s girly. I just suck at glitter.”

“Well, you don’t work with small children,” Shireen points out. “I just want you to have fun too.”

“I am,” Rickon says. “I’m with you.”

Shireen loops her arm in his as they leave. She waves at Dany, who is standing arm in arm with Ygritte, sipping punch and laughing at Jon Snow, as she and Rickon make their way up the street.

It’s so nice to have someone on Valentine’s. It’s not that Shireen thinks her self-worth is linked to romantic love — it isn’t — but she _likes_ holding hands with Rickon and stopping to kiss each other every so often as they make their way though the crowd. She _likes_ getting to watch Rickon and Grey exchange awkward handshakes while she and Missy squeal and hug and say happy Galentine’s day and share a cup of absurdly decadent hot chocolate from Wildling’s. She _likes_ the way Tommen Baratheon’s eyes get big and Jaime Lannister looks deeply confused when Shireen confirms that yes, Rickon is her boyfriend in response to Tommen’s question. 

It’s nice and it feels good and maybe that’s not evolved and independent and feminist but Shireen is _happy_.

Sansa hasn’t gotten the full story of what’s going on with Brienne and Jaime yet but she knows something must be going on, because Brienne gets awkward and red and practically dives behind a corner when they see Jaime and the Baratheon kids on the sidewalk.

“I knew it,” Sansa crows, looking at Brienne.

Brienne ignores her, but Asha returns with three more glasses of champagne she’s wheedled out of whichever Lannister cousin is meant to be restricting people to one glass each, and obligingly asks Sansa what she knew while Brienne continues to try to become one with the marble walls of the bank lobby.

Of all the places to hide from a Lannister, Lannister bank is probably the worst option. 

“That there’s something between Brienne and Jaime Lannister,” Sansa says, delicately sipping her second glass of champagne.

Asha downs hers like a shot. 

“There is nothing going on with me and anyone,” Brienne hisses. 

“I let you get away with avoiding Marbrand’s,” Sansa says. She’d refused to grab one of the extra fudgey brownies for Brienne, but that hadn’t been enough to entice Brienne into the law office. Instead, she’d slunk into the Iron Crown and emerged with floss, of all things, because that’s what Stannis thinks is an appropriate offering.

Both Stannis and Brienne had looked extremely offended when Asha laughed at them.

Brienne is probably the type of person who actually does floss regularly, unlike Sansa. Sansa means to do it, she does, but about a week after every dental appointment she just sort of forgets until she’s back in the chair and lying to Selyse about her dental hygiene.

As far as Sansa can tell, nobody actually notices that she’s lying, so how important can flossing be, really?

“If there’s nothing going on, why are you hiding?” Asha says. She forces Brienne to take the glass of champagne. 

Sansa fishes the raspberry out of the bottom of her glass and eats it before continuing their conversation. “Didn’t you say you saw him at the winter carnival? And went ice skating?” 

Brienne turns a deep scarlett and Asha punches her in the arm, grinning delightedly. 

“You didn’t tell me that!” 

“He’s just one of those weird extroverts,” Brienne says. “He’s like … a human golden retriever, he’ll be friendly to anyone.”

Asha and Sansa exchange a look. 

“Okay, first of all, I’m offended on behalf of extroverts,” Sansa says. “Second of all, Jaime is practically a recluse.” 

“He’s better since he got the kids,” Asha points out. 

“Still.” Sansa considers. “I asked Uncle Benjen. He says Jaime only ever spent time with his siblings and cousins, unless Cersei dragged him out with her group. And Addam, I guess, though I think they are actually cousins?” 

“So he’s just a golden retriever with Brienne,” Asha says. 

“He likes you,” Sansa sings, and only feels a little bad when Brienne stares down at her feet and scowls.

She doesn’t understand why Brienne is so resistant to this. Jaime obviously isn’t Sansa’s type, but she knows Brienne thinks he’s attractive. It’s obviously in how flustered she’d been when Jaime adopted the cats, and how she’d kept thinking about him even after — and not just because she was annoyed like she claimed. 

Honestly, Brienne is a lot like Arya and Sansa has years of experience figuring out what is actually going on under Arya’s prickly exterior. 

“Good, let’s go say hi,” Asha says, and starts dragging Brienne out the door. 

Unsurprisingly, Jaime grins broadly at the sight of them. He’s got glitter in his hair, somehow, and Tommen is clinging to one hand, chattering about Valentine’s for cats while Myrcella licks at a cone of Alys’ rose-flavored ice cream.

It makes Sansa shiver just to watch her eat ice cream in February, but Myrcella doesn’t seem to mind. 

Myrcella also has one of the library’s blind date with a book picks under one arm, still wrapped in its brown paper wrapping. It’s the cutest idea Sansa has ever seen and she can’t wait to find out what book she’s got — the cover just said ‘Suspense, Mystery, Laugh Out Loud’ and Sansa is definitely intrigued. 

“I wish they had more cat treats here,” Tommen is saying, and Brienne nods seriously and promises to look into something before the next festival.

Brienne continues to speak mostly to Tommen, mumbling one word responses when Jaime tries to engage her. It does not, Sansa notices, stop him from staring besottedly at her as she and Tommen discuss various feline-related things.

If life was a cartoon, Jaime would have giant thumping hearts for eyes. 

“I should get back to the vet’s office,” Brienne says, as it becomes clear that Tommen has run out of things to say.

Sansa can’t help sighing heavily, especially when she sees Jaime’s shoulders slump. Brienne doesn’t appear to notice. 

“That was rude,” Sansa informs Brienne, after she’s hastily started retreating from the Lannister-Baratheon brood. Myrcella is trying to convince Jaime to let her have a glass of champagne as Sansa, Asha, and Brienne start down the block.

“I was perfectly polite,” Brienne says.

Asha snorts. “Lannister looked like a kicked puppy.”

“He did not,” Brienne says. 

“A sad, abused, golden retriever puppy,” Sansa confirms, waving at Margaery as they pass on the street. Margaery has her grandmother on her arm, smiling as the older woman goes on about something. 

“Just wanting someone to be his forever person,” Asha says, looking at Brienne with an exaggerated expression of sorrow. 

“Your compulsive need to see people coupled up is impairing your judgement,” Brienne says, and wow that sounds familiar.

“Have you been hanging out with Arya?” Sansa asks. “Because that sounds a lot like my sister.”

“They had lunch,” Asha says. “Just last week.” 

“I just want you to be happy,” Sansa says, stopping just before their block. “And loved, because you’re a rainbow-infused space unicorn.”

“I thought I was a land mermaid,” Brienne says, looking confused. 

Honestly, how has she never seen Parks and Rec? Sansa will have to fix that. 

“You’re both,” she informs Brienne. “And we aren’t done yet.”

“We aren’t?” Asha asks.

“Nope,” Sansa says, tugging both her friends toward Obara’s. “It’s time for pictures!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my last post folks said they were interested in full festival details. So here's the rundown! Frey's Insurance gives out [rapsberry hear cookies](https://happyhappynester.com/raspberry-filled-valentines-heart-cookie/), the library is doing blind date with a book, Reeds Outdoor Emporium has [trail mix](https://www.aspicyperspective.com/homemade-trail-mix-valentine-snack/), the Citadel Clinic has a fruit and cheese platter, Iron Crown Dentistry has floss, Frozen North has rose ice cream, Marbrand's law office has fudgey brownies, Wilding's has ultra rich and chocolately hot chocolate, Balon's Barber is closed, Ellaria's therapy office has chocolate dipped strawberries, Tyrell's grocery has chocolate cherry trifle, the Old Martell Hotel is abandoned, Lannister bank has champagne or sparkling juice, Tarly's has [apple rose pies](https://www.thekitchn.com/recipe-mini-apple-rose-pies-228238).
> 
> City hall has [tomato heart tarts](https://fayettewoman.com/queen-hearts-tomato-tarts/), Cregan's has red velvet cupcakes, the courthouse has [punch](https://sprinklesomefun.com/valentine-punch/), the school is making card boxes, Nymeria's boutique has perfume imps, the garden center is decorating mini flower pots, the pharmacy has [deviled strawberries](https://www.instrupix.com/deviled-strawberries/), the daycare is making cards, Syrio has heart-shaped meatloafs, Evenfall's oysters, Martell's law office has figs with honey and yogurt, Val's has [bacon roses](https://jesspryles.com/recipe/how-to-make-bacon-roses/), Renly has chocolate truffles, and Tysha [has glitter candle holder crafts](https://tatertotsandjello.com/valentine-glitter-mason-jar-tutorial/). 
> 
> Cassel's has a heart toss game, the diner has heart-shaped Galentine's waffles, Dany's pet store has heart-shaped dog biscuits, the Weekly Spyder has [popcorn balls](https://www.fun365.orientaltrading.com/recipe/valentines-day-white-chocolate-popcorn-balls), the yarn shop has rose tea, Littlefinger's has [Cupid's Panties](https://www.seductioninthekitchen.com/cupids-panties-a-valentines-day-shot/) and [chocolate cherry](https://dishesdelish.com/chocolate-covered-cherry-shot/) shots, Blushing Blooms is giving out roses, Davos is doing Valentine's face paint, Drogo has chocolate protein balls, Tyene has sex cards, Gilly has cream puffs, Tyrion has candy hearts, the vet's has dog treats made of lamb heart and Obara has a Valentine/Galentine photo booth area with props. 
> 
> Do you like having that detail in the notes? Or is it too much?


	84. Girl Relax Let's Go Slow (I Ain't Got Nowhere To Go)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen and Rickon enjoy Valentine's Day after the party.

Shireen is pleasantly tipsy by the time they return to her apartment, having stopped by Littlefinger’s for a few more Valentine’s shots. 

Aside from ducking around a corner to avoid his parents, Rickon had been surprisingly enthusiastic about the Valentine’s party. Not what Shireen had expected, but then it seems very few things about Rickon are. In the best possible way. 

One of the few things about Rickon that is exactly as it seems, though, is one of first thoughts Shireen had about him — that he’s _dangerous_ , in the best possible ways. Just seeing him standing there next to his beat-up junker of a car left her feeling weak and it’s nothing compared to what it’s like when he’s focusing all his attention on her. 

Shireen can’t quite form words, not with the way Rickon is looking at her, eyes dark and almost feral, as he kneels between her knees, running his hands up and down her legs. Her dress is long gone, a crumpled pile of pink and black fabric near the door. She’d felt foolish even wearing it, because it had been hidden under her thick, cream-colored wool overcoat all night but it was worth it to see RIckon’s jaw drop when they got back to her apartment. 

That was … Shireen isn’t sure how long ago, really, because her brain seems to be working slower than usual as Rickon stares down at her

“You’re sure?” His voice is like gravel, and Shireen can’t help arching up and whimpering a little, feeling like her skin is too tight, like the little bit of clothing she has left is too much. 

“Yes,” Shireen manages, reaching toward him. Rickon’s lost his shirt and there’s entirely too much tattooed muscle on display for her not to be touching him.

He leans back out of her reach, though, and takes his hands off her legs. 

That does make it a little easier to think clearly, as Rickon takes several deep breaths and looks away from her. It also gives Shireen a chance to feel her nerves start creeping back in, wondering about what he’s thinking, looking at her in her high-waisted panties with hearts on them (“Cupid’s panties!” Rickon had delightedly said, when he’d finished yanking her dress over her head. “Like the shots!”) and the entirely too industrial looking rose bra she’d had to wear to make a 20s style dress look even remotely appropriate on her body. 

It’s hardly sexy lingerie. Maybe she should have taken Missy up on her offer of a shopping trip. 

“I just want to make sure, before we —” Rickon hesitates. “I’ll stop if you ask me to, no matter what, but I still need to know you’re sure before we go too far.”

“I’m sure.” Shireen lets her eyes wander over him, the way his muscles shift, the tense line of his jaw. “Are you?”

She tries to keep her insecurities out of her voice but she’s not sure she succeeds.

Rickon’s jaw actually drops, a little, and then he’s surging forward until he’s hovering above Shireen, nose bumping up against hers. 

“I’m sure,” he says, against her lips, and then he’s kissing her again, and it isn’t long before Shireen’s ability to think starts to slip away again. All she can think about is Rickon, about the way his skin is warm and surprisingly soft under her hands, the way his hips press into her, the rough sounds he makes when she grips him too tight and her nails dig into his arms. The way he makes a surprised noise when he finally gets her bra off, and the soft, almost sad one that follows when he sees the red lines left on her skin.

“That looks like it hurts,” Rickon says, shifting down to kiss along the places where the underwire and elastic has left their marks. 

“The price of fashion,” Shireen manages to get out, before tanging her fingers in Rickon’s hair. It’s very sweet, the way he’s gently pressing his lips against her, but it’s also not where she really wants his mouth to be right now. “I’d never get into that dress with my boobs otherwise.”

Rickon’s beard is scratchy against her skin, and Shireen can’t tell if she likes it or not as he nips at the side of her breasts. She definitely likes that, and sighs a little. 

“I’ve never understood why girls hurt themselves for clothes,” Rickon says. 

“You liked me in that dress,” Shireen points out. 

“I’d like you in a paper bag,” Rickon retorts, and forstalls any further argument by latching onto Shireen’s nipple and sucking hard enough that Shireen goes light-headed for a second. 

Whatever Shireen had been planning to say in response wasn’t that important anyway. 

Rickon groans when Shireen tightens her grip on his arms and shoulders, shudders against her when she runs her foot up his bare leg, after he’s tossed his jeans somewhere into a corner. She learns that kissing and nibbling on the tendons of his neck — something she’s been dying to do since the first time she saw him — makes his eyes go a little out of focus and that he makes the most delicious noises. 

Shireen learns that the inside of her forearm and elbow is shockingly sensitive, and Rickon kissing his way along her arms, rubbing his beard against her, has her mindlessly grasping to get closer to him. It doesn’t entirely work, not when she’s trying to take her underwear off and pull Rickon up to kiss her at the same time. 

Somehow Rickon loses his boxers too, and suddenly they’re naked against each other and Shiren has never felt anything better in her life. 

Not until Rickon stops her from trying to pull herself closer with a fond murmur about her impatience, and reaches to slide his finger into her. 

“You’re too patient,” Shireen finally manages to tell him, her hips chasing his touch as he slowly, so slowly moves his hand. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Rickon says. 

It’s probably for the best, because Shireen can feel the stretch and burn when he adds another finger, still slow, and a third. And she can tell by looking at him that what he’s doing is still nothing, comparatively. 

It’s enough to make her nerves come back again, even while she feels like what they’re doing isn’t enough, couldn’t possibly be enough. 

“You’re sure?” Rickon asks again, smoothing her hair back before kissing her, slow and deep and hot. 

Something aches in Shireen’s chest at that, at how sweet and thoughtful he is, even while he’s thrusting a little against her thigh, she can feel him scorchingly hot even through the condom he’d procured from somewhere. (And thank god for that — the only person Shireen knows well enough to ask for one, in her building, is Brienne, so they’d have been out of luck if Rickon hadn’t thought ahead.)

Shireen can tell, even though Rickon looks like he’s desperate for something, that if she said no, he’d stop immediately, and that’s what makes it so easy for her to say yes. 

“I’m sorry,” Rickon mumbles against her lips, as Shireen flinches a little when he presses into her. It’s not pain, not entirely, not like she’s heard described but it’s new and not entirely comfortable at first.

“Don’t be,” Shireen says. 

Rickon holds still a minute, trembling with the effort, but it’s like he can’t stay still for long, and his hips roll against her and Shireen gasps. “No, good,” she says when RIckon looks like he’s about to pull away. “Good noise.”

Rickon’s grin looks dangerous again, when he rolls his hips again, slower and more deliberate, and Shireen can definitely feel the discomfort easing away. Especially when Rickon pulls her leg up to his waist, and he’s suddenly hitting a spot inside of her that makes Shireen’s vision white out. 

Shireen feels overwhelmed by it all, by the way Rickon is so close like this, how she can feel his breath stutter against her face, the way his hands are constantly moving to touch whatever part of her he can reach, the way he kisses her sloppily as he moves. It doesn’t take long before he’s stiffening above her, hips jolting harder against her a few times as he lets out a noise Shireen feels down to her toes. 

Rickon is almost boneless after, flopping onto his back and coaxing Shireen to drape herself over him as he reaches down to touch her.

It’s easier than on the mountain, they’re naked, and Shireen forgets to feel self-conscious even though Rickon is staring at where he’s stroking her. Everything still feels like too much, too big and her orgrasm hits her like a tornado, she can’t even make noise, as her body convulses and shakes. 

Shireen has to bat RIckon’s hand away after, because he looks like he’d just keep going and as tempting as that idea is, Shireen needs a minute to collect herself. 

Rickon makes a disappointed noise, but wraps his arms around her and nuzzles into her hair. 

“You still good?” he asks, after a while. 

“Mmmhmm.” Shireen nods against his chest. It’s such a nice chest, really, not as soft as her pillow, but so much better to lay against. “You?”

“Amazing.” Rickon twines his fingers into her hair. “Sleepy.” 

“Sleep is good,” Shireen agrees. “We should do that.” So they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of us in the U.S. definitely deserve a post-debate palette cleanser, yes?
> 
> Shireen's [dress](https://www.unique-vintage.com/products/1920s-style-mauve-pink-mesh-embroidered-charley-flapper-dress). Her bra issues are drawn from observation, not experience, as I am a member of the itty bitty titty committee so apologies if I got it wrong. 
> 
> I also have been sketching some maps to help keep everything straight in my mind. Here's [one of the downtown area of Westeros](https://dancinginthecenteroftheworld.tumblr.com/post/631352316349628416/i-have-been-getting-back-to-my-small-town-au-and-i), if you're curious. I also have a spreadsheet about festivals and what each business does, because this is a completely normal amount of obsession please don't tell me otherwise.
> 
> Which leads me to — as I think ahead, I'm trying to think of what new things I can add, to give this story some semblance of "plot" on which to hang character moments. SO re: above map. I envision downtown being about six blocks, three north of the square and three south. As you can see if you click, there are only 3 blocks filled in (one north, two south) which gives me another three of fictional real estate to play with. So if you have any ideas for characters we haven't seen yet and businesses a quirky small town might enjoy, please chime in the comments! I"m mulling. And still reading the books to gather more characters. :D
> 
> Oh, and not on this map there ARE a few businesses not downtown. The shelter is in an unincorporated area of town, and there's a more industrial area that has the Valyrian Steel mechanic shop, Bear Island Gas and Minimart, Bolton Funeral Home, Walder's Used Cars, and Baelish's as-yet-unnamed strip club. 
> 
> I ... have to figure out where the churches are, exactly. I think Sparrow's is in the seedy, not-great residential neighborhood and Father Meribald is in a residential neighborhood close to downtown, most likely. 
> 
> Hope you're all doing well and enjoying the story.


	85. Looking For A Complication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ygritte decides it's time to crash family dinner.

Jon’s first sign of trouble comes when he gets off shift and sees Ygritte sitting on the steps to the condo he shares with Sam. Sam has gone to the bakery, instead of coming home, to try to woo Gilly some more. Jon just has to change clothes and head over to the Starks for dinner. But there’s Ygritte, smirking at him in a way that Jon doesn’t trust.

“I’m hungry,” Ygritte announces, as she follows Jon inside. 

“I’m going to the Starks for dinner,” Jon says absently as he throws his uniform in the direction of his hamper and digs a clean sweatshirt out of his drawer. “I know.” 

Ygritte is grinning when Jon pops his head through the collar of his shirt.

“You’re taking me to family dinner,” Ygritte informs him, as Jon pulls on jeans. 

“What?”

“Family dinner. I’m going.” Ygritte frowns at Jon’s hair. “Are you going to brush your hair?” 

“No.” You don’t brush curly hair, Jon’s learned that through painful experience. He does take some curl creme and rub it in to tame the frizz, though. “Why are you coming to family dinner?”

“I’m hungry.” 

Ygritte’s attempt at looking innocent is terrible. Jon raises an eyebrow.

“Fine, I’m bored,” she admits. “I haven’t heard _any_ good gossip this week and all Tor wants to talk about is the bear he’s fucking.”

“Tormund’s dating a Mormont?” Jon really hopes that is what she means by a bear— the women of that family have an affinity for the creatures that stays just shy of becoming a furry fetish. 

“Or an actual bear, I’m not really clear.” Ygritte shrugs.

“I don’t want to arrest your cousin, so let’s assume he means a Mormont.” 

Ygritte makes a non-committal noise, then stares at Jon expectantly.

“Fine,” he says. “Would you like to come to family dinner?”

Ygritte beams. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The good news about Ygritte’s spur-of-the-moment decision is that nobody gets a heads up for possible drama. So it’s just the family for once — Aunt Cat and Uncle Ned, all the kids, and Margaery. Because it’s clear to pretty much everyone that Margaery’s going to be a Stark soon enough.

Or Sansa’s going to be a Tyrell.

Maybe they’ll hyphenate.

Anyway, she’s as good as family. 

Uncle Ned looks confused, then resigned, when Ygritte trails Jon into the house and asks for a long island iced tea as her drink. He informs her it’s not on his menu and hands her a negroni instead, which Ygritte takes with a grin. 

Then he stops Aunt Cat from going back into the kitchen to make something new, because Jon didn’t tell her he was bringing someone and she’s so embarrassed that dinner is simple.

“Didn’t he?” Ygritte asks, smirk playing around her lips.

Of course she’d throw Jon under the bus. 

“It’ll be great, Mom,” Bran says. 

It is, of course. Cat’s idea of simple is three golden, perfectly roasted chickens bursting with lemon and garlic flavor, piles of crispy roast potatoes, a colorful salad made with roast butternut squash and spinach, and carrots glazed with honey and garlic. Plus freshly baked rolls. 

“Fuck me, why did you ever move out?” Ygritte exclaims, after she takes a bite. 

Cat chokes on her wine a little.

“We made them,” Ned says, from the head of the table. 

Ygritte shakes her head, shoving a huge forkful of potatoes in her mouth. Arya grins at the horrified look on Cat’s face, as Ygritte rests both elbows on the table while working on her full plate. 

“How’s Talisa?” Jon says, a little desperately.

Robb glares at him. “She’s fine.”

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t find out the baby’s gender,” Cat says, voice tight. 

Oops — Jon hadn’t realized he was walking into that particular minefield.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Robb says. 

“Gender is a social construct anyway,” Arya adds. 

“How will you decorate the nursery?” Cat asks. “Do you have a color scheme? What art will you put on the walls?”

Robb looks like a trapped animal. 

“Yellow is nice,” Sansa offers. “Or a mint green. Oh, mint green and warm chocolate brown, that could be fun. LIke an ice cream cone!”

“Or rainbow,” Margaery offers. One of her hands has been suspiciously absent from the table, and Sansa’s cheeks are awfully flushed, for how little of her drink she’s had.

“Like the kid is going to care?” Ygritte says. Arya’s grin gets wider. 

“It’s what civilized people do,” Cat gets out, between gritted teeth.

Sansa’s jaw drops and a hurt look flashes across Ygritte’s face before she goes back to smirking and eating potatoes. 

Jon can’t let that go without comment.

“That’s unfair, Aunt Cat.” 

Ygritte’s head snaps up, and she stares at Jon.

“And it’s rude,” Jon says, when his aunt doesn’t say anything. “Ygritte’s right, a nursery is decorated for the parents more than the baby. Do any of us remember our rooms at that age?”

Rickon snorts, and everyone else shakes their heads no. 

“Well,” Cat starts, then stops. “I just want the best for my grandchild.” 

“I’m sorry, Ygritte,” Ned says. “Things are a little tense here, lately.” 

“You mean, Mom’s butthurt that we’re not following her plans,” Arya says. 

“Arya!” Cat sounds shocked. “That is not appropriate for company.” 

“It’s not company, it’s Ygritte,” Arya says. Then elbows Ygritte in the side. “You’re dating my stupid brother, come on.” 

Arya has always refused to call Jon her cousin, no matter how much Cat despaired about it. As far as Arya’s concerned, they grew up together, they’re siblings, and that’s the end of it. Jon loves her a little more for it as Ygritte gives her a real smile back, not the smirk she usually shows the world. 

Jon hardly even gets that real smile from Ygritte, except when they’re in bed. 

“I know I raised you with better manners than this,” Cat says, from between clenched teeth. 

“What?” Arya says, ignoring the imploring look Ned sends her way. “You’re snappish because nobody here is going to have a fairytale wedding with a spouse you picked and a white picket fence and perfect children.” “Excuse you,” Sansa says. 

“Fine, Sansa will, but you’re still mad because it’ll have two brides,” Arya says. 

“I just want you all to be happy,” Cat says, in a carefully measured tone that means she’s reaching the end of her rope. 

“We are!” Arya throws her hands up, not realizing she’s still holding a fork. A bit of potato goes flying towards the wall. “ _You’re_ the one who isn’t.”

Cat’s eyes dart towards Ygritte, and then back to Arya. “You’re all very young, and I don’t think you see the consequences of your actions.”

To Jon’s surprise, Sansa jumps in next. Both of Margaery’s hands are back in view, and the mischievous smirk Sansa was showing earlier is long gone. 

“We’re all adults, Mom.” Sansa reaches over and squeezes Margaery’s hand. “And you don’t have to like our choices, but you don’t get to take that out on other people, especially ones who don’t have anything to do with it.”

Cat looks like she has a lot to say about that, but she keeps her mouth shut. 

Bran, who has been silently watching with Rickon, is the next to speak up.

“Just because something isn’t like you imagined, doesn’t mean giving up,” he says. “Isn’t that what you told me after the accident?”

Nobody has anything to say to that — for all his wheelchair jokes, Bran rarely brings up what happened to him. 

The rest of dinner passes in awkward silence, and Jon’s ready to escape. He doesn’t even want to stay for Aunt Cat’s pound cake, and surprisingly Sansa doesn’t seem to mind him skipping out on sibling bonding time. 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says, hugging both Jon and Ygritte before they go. 

“You usually don’t stand up to her,” Jon says. 

Sansa shrugs and looks embarrassed. 

“I guess I didn’t realize how she could be sometimes,” she says.

Sansa has always been the best at living up to Cat’s expectations. Even with the whole Margaery thing. 

“Well,” Ygritte finally says, after they’ve left. “That was fun. But you owe me.”

“Oh?” Jon says. He’s not surprised, and decides not to mention that he could have told her this was a bad idea.

“Yeah, we didn’t get to fuck anywhere interesting,” Ygritte says, poking him in the chest. “Next time, we’re finding a corner and beating Margaery and Sansa for scandal.”

“Next time,” Jon says, faintly.

“Your aunt turned a really interesting shade of red,” Ygritte says. “Next time, do you think we can get her to reach puce? Magenta, maybe?”

Jon sighs. 

At least she’s not breaking up with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Foo Fighters for chapter title and thank you Dave Grohl for existing.
> 
> Cat is having a hard time adjusting to things. She's trying and she does love her children (and Jon) but it's not going so great.
> 
> And Ygritte's not looked upon too since she's Wildling — in this universe, I imagine the Wildling's to be an indigenous nation and, as is often the case, they aren't always thought of well. And Ygritte's background isn't the greatest, which is known in a small community, and so yeah. Cat's got some prejudice though she'd deny it if asked, of course.
> 
> Between Robb's out-of-wedlock baby, Sansa being a lesbian, Arya dating Gendry (whose father was never in the picture, though they can instantly see he's Robert's kid), and Jon dating Ygritte, she's got a lot to adjust to.
> 
> She likes Meera at least? And will love Shireen once she gets over the shock.


	86. Head Over Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning with Sansa and Margaery.

“Do you think Brienne would let me sew her some clothes?” Margaery says, from where she’s kneeling on the floor in a pile of fabric.

Sansa snorts. “I doubt it.”

“It’s just so sad,” Margaery says. “I see her looking at things like — she wants to have them but then she pretends she doesn’t care.’ “She buys most of her stuff in the men’s section, and not because she wants to,” Sansa agrees. Asha buys most of her things in the men’s section too, but it’s clearly a style choice that works very well for her. 

“Bshdhv, wcdfxth,” Margaery says, around a mouthful of pins.

Sansa squints at her. “Try that again?”

Margaery waves a hand, and works on whatever she’s draping over the dress form in front of her, stabbing pins in. 

“But she doesn’t have to,” Margaery says, when she’s removed the final pin. “We could fix that.”

“I don’t know if she knows she can ask for that,” Sansa says. She stretches a little, back cracking, and then snuggles deeper into the sofa in Margaery’s studio room — aka, the second bedroom in her condo. Sansa should probably think about getting dressed and eating something, but it’s so nice to be snuggled under a blanket watching her girlfriend work.

Even if Margaery had woken them both up at the crack of dawn, crawling out of bed and mumbling something about inspiration. Sansa had dozed a little longer before making coffee for both of them and joining Margaery.

Margaery has pulled on some underwear and a tee shirt Sansa is pretty certain actually belongs to her, and Margaery’s hair is still sticking out at odd angles as she sorts through fabric and pins things — it looks like a dress, maybe, lots of blue fabrics being draped and pinned while Margaery frowns and adjusts and jots notes down on a little notebook. 

Sansa wonders if she’ll be able to convince her parents to buy some of Margaery’s designs for the store.

Probably not — Sansa may be the head buyer for women’s and children’s fashion, but her parents still have final say and she knows how her dad feels about nepotism. Sansa and Robb have had to work their way up in the store, just like everyone else. Sansa still takes shifts as a sales associate, even now. Plus, Margaery tends to do one-off designs, which isn’t really what Cregan’s is about. Her parents want consistent stock, not designer creations. 

Nymeria’s boutique might take them. She’s very into couture and one-of-a-kind items.

“She’s amazing,” Margaery says, stabbing pins into the dress form. “I mean, her muscles”

“I know,” Sansa agrees. 

“Your muscles are great too,” Margaery says, after a minute, not quite looking at Sansa. Sansa snorts.

“I don’t have muscles,” she says. “But that’s fine.”

“I love you just the way you are,” Margaery agrees.

“Also, Brienne is straight and isn’t going to date either one of us.” Sansa takes another sip of her coffee. 

“She should date Lannister,” Margaery says. “Or Marbrand.”

“Marbrand’s certainly nicer,” Sansa says. “But Lannister seems to be head over heels already.”

“He is good looking,” Margaery says, gazing off into space. 

Sansa tosses a throw pillow at her, grinning when Margaery stumbles back from where she’s crouched on her heels, landing on the floor in an uncharacteristically awkward pose. 

Margaery pouts a minute before tossing her pincushion aside and coming to join Sansa the small sofa. 

“What time is it?” Margaery says, around a yawn.

“Probably around 8:30,” Sansa guesses. 

“Ugh, why did I wake up so early?” Margaery’s nose wrinkles. 

“I don’t have to be at work til 10,” Sansa says. “Why don’t we take advantage of your strange early bird moment and get breakfast before I go home to change.” 

“Mm, Fat Walda’s?” Margaery suggests. 

“Yeah, I want a giant plate of pancakes,” Sansa decides. “The gingerbread ones. With maple syrup and bacon.”

“It is so not fair that you can eat that much sugar and feel fine,” Margaery grumbles. It’s a familiar lament. 

“You can steal some,” Sansa promises. “And I’ll even eat some of your disgustingly healthy order.”

“Egg white veggie omelets aren’t disgusting,” Margaery protests, as she drags Sansa back to the bedroom to get dressed. 

They keep bickering about it all the way to breakfast, and even though the half of an omelette Margaery trades for a healthy serving of pancakes tastes like cardboard, Sansa can’t help thinking it’s the perfect morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Margaery are just gonna be their sweet, busybody selves. 
> 
> Asha, like Brienne, shops in the men's section, but that's cause Asha is fairly butch. And she's quite happy with her choices and wears it with pride and style.
> 
> Sansa and Robb both work at Cregan's — all the Stark kids could but they're the only two that wanted to. Robb is a manager and Sansa is head buyer for women's and children's clothing. Though Sansa still likes to take shifts on the sales floor to understand what people are looking for. 
> 
> I have a sweet tooth like Sansa, and I'm one of those people who looks confused when something is described as "too sweet." I do not think that is possible. SHOVE THE SUGAR IN MY FACE.
> 
> Happy Monday, everyone!


	87. I'm A Wildflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Westeros flower festival kicks off!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ElizaDunc for her excellent beta-work. And willingness to put up with the long pauses and sudden flood of chapters!
> 
> I tried a different format for this festival. It went all right, but I think I prefer the other, so it will definitely be back.
> 
> The list of offerings is growing long — I think I may start posting on Tumblr and adding a link here, so I don't run out of characters in the end notes! I'm also posting some extra info there, as well, so hit me up. Same username, different site.

“A flower festival,” Brienne says, looking at the flyer Sansa is waving under her nose. It’s very pastel. 

She looks past Sansa to the window, which shows the parking lot for the shelter still wreathed with mounds of snow. More of the white stuff is quickly piling up on the cars outside already. 

“Yes!” Sansa beams. 

“Don’t you need it to, you know, not be snowing for flowers?” Brienne asks.

“Well, it’ll start easing up soon,” Sansa says, with a confidence that seems misplaced given the forecast for coming weeks.

“Besides, most of the stuff is grown in greenhouses,” Sansa admits. “And we’re pretty liberal with the definition. Herbs count, for sure.” 

“I see.”

“We’re giving out catnip,” Sansa forges on, not diminished at all by Brienne’s lack of enthusiasm. “I’m setting up shifts for the vet’s office, so we all get a chance to go out and have fun. Mrs. Celtiger is really excited to take a turn!”

Mrs. Celtiger is one of their newer volunteers. Brienne isn’t sure how old she is, but she’s elderly enough that her duties are usually limited to sitting at the desk or socializing cats and kittens. 

Brienne’s been called slow many times in her life, but she’s not stupid so she gives up on arguing and when the festival rolls around, she leaves Mrs. Celtigar in the vet’s office and heads north of the square. 

She must be adapting to the north too, because Brienne finds herself stuffing her hat and mittens into the pockets of her coat, the forty degree temperature feeling almost balmy.

She finds Sansa in front of Frey’s Insurance with Daenerys, Missandei, Margaery, Shireen, and, surprisingly, Arya. Shireen has a colorful flower painted on one cheek, courtesy of the face-painting Davos is offering. Margaery’s hair has pink and white roses braided into it, while Sansa has a wreath of blue winter roses perched on her head. She presents one to Brienne, insisting on pinning it into her hair even though Brienne tells her it will never stay. 

Missandei and Shireen have pockets full of flowers clumsily made out of tissue paper and cupcake liners — courtesy of current and former students, Missandei explains, while Brienne sits on the curb and lets Sansa fuss with her hair. Missandei has delicate white flowers in her hair — which looks like it holds on to decoration a lot better than Brienne’s — and Daenerys has braided her hair into a sort of crown, with a display of unusual-looking flowers in the front. The flowers are purple, dark red and even black, which Brienne didn’t know was a color flowers could be.

Arya, at least, is looking her usual self, devoid of any blossoms. She’s stuffing one of the lavender cupcakes Lothar Frey is handing out (with a scowl very at odds with the festival’s theme) into her mouth and shaking her head at Sansa.

“There,” Sansa pronounces and Brienne gingerly pats her head to feel the way the hair on one side is now twisted, with the rose poked in.

The festival is a lot less grating than Valentine’s Day, Brienne has to admit — she may not hate Valentine’s, but that doesn’t mean spending it around many besotted couples was fun. They run into Val and Tysha at the library, which is offering a seed exchange. Shireen takes a lot of seeds, and insists that Brienne will be able to grow some of the simple flowers and herbs she picks for her. 

“You don’t have castor seeds, do you?” Daenerys asks the librarian, who looks alarmed as he tells her no.

“Ah well.” Daenerys shuffles her packets of seeds. “I’ve got foxglove, oleander, belladonna and aconite, at least.” 

“Um,” Missandei says. “You should know those are toxic.”

Daenerys grins. “Oh, I do.”

At Reed’s, Brienne is surprised to find that they pick up more than nettle fritters (all made from locally foraged nettles, Howland assures them) and leave with Sansa’s brother Bran. He doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the garland of vines and flowers draped over the back of his wheelchair, even when Arya laughs. 

“Is Westeros always so competitive?” Brienne finally asks, when they reach the town square. She’s not complaining, but she can’t help notice some of the businesses seem to be getting more elaborate with each festival — the Citadel is handing out homemade pappardelle with flowers this time and her father spent days making floral ravioli. 

“Kind of?” Sansa looks to Shireen and Missandei for agreement.

“You get used to it,” Missandei offers, nibbling on her lilac scone. Shireen is determinedly licking a scoop of chamomile ice cream, even though she’s shivering. 

“I like it,” Daenerys decides, finishing her honey lavender chicken and taking the champagne with honeysuckle cordial Genna Lannister offers. 

“There’s a lot of old rivalries,” Margaery explains. She’s gulping down a serving of violet asparagus risotto from Tarly’s. 

Brienne nibbles on the donut from Marbrand’s while Margaery explains. Addam hadn’t been too weird when they went in, thankfully, just gave Brienne a warm smile and asked if she’d gotten any better at bowling. 

Which still meant a lot of nudges and giggles from most of the group, but it could have been worse.

And the donut mostly tastes like lemon and ginger, even with flower petals arranged on top. Which is good, because Brienne needs something to wash away the taste of dandelion root coffee. Ygritte insists it’s a great drink, Brienne disagrees.

“The Starks, the Lannisters, the Tyrells and the Baratheons, mostly,” Margaery says. “Lots of old rivalries.” “It used to include the Targaryens and Martells too,” Sansa says, as they work their way down the next block. She kisses her grandfather on the cheek as they all take cups of elderflower punch at the courthouse. “But they moved away.”

“It was not a good departure,” Daenerys adds, as Catelyn fusses over the group before handing them biscuits topped with forsythia jelly. 

Arya gives the whole setup a dirty look. “I hate canning,” she mutters. 

“Like you ever did any,” Sansa retorts. “You just carried stuff for mom.”

“It was a lot of stuff!” Arya defends. 

Bran rolls his eyes at both of them. “At least she didn’t make either of you de-stem all the flowers.” 

“Anyway,” Sansa says, waving a hand at her siblings. “It’s all silly old stuff, but it does mean people go a little overboard, trying to do their family name proud.”

Daenerys looks reflective as she takes an orange blossom panna cotta from Nymeria Sand. 

“I know mom worried a lot about me coming back,” she says. “She didn’t know how many Martells were still in town and that’s a grudge that still hurts.”

“Not many,” Sansa says.

“I hear that’s changing though.” It’s the last voice Brienne wants to hear, given the way Sansa and Shireen get devious looks on their faces. 

Jaime Lannister has a flower tucked behind his ear, and while it should seem silly, he manages to look like the height of fashion. Tommen and Myrcella are with him, Myrcella enjoying a piece of chamomile pound cake while Tommen tries to pick the flower petals out of his flower butter and oat bread. 

“Jaime!” Sansa cries. “Does that mean you have gossip?” 

“I hear Doran Martell might be moving back,” Jaime confirms. “Opening the old hotel.”

“Oh, that would be great,” Missandei says. “It’s such a pain not having a hotel in town.”

“Where did you hear that?” Sansa asks, subtly steering Jaime to turn around. He follows, seemingly unaware that he’s being herded back the direction he already came. 

“I hear things,” Jaime says. He looks them all over. “You ladies are all looking lovely today. And Bran.”

Arya snorts. 

“I like your flowers,” Tommen tells Bran earnestly. “It’s brave to wear them.” 

“I like nature,” Bran tells the younger boy. “Flowers aren’t just for girls.”

“And some of them are deadly,” Daenerys adds, helpfully. She points at her hair. “Like these. They’re called hellebores. The ancient Greeks used them to poison the water supply during wars.” 

“Which is why you should never eat any plant you don’t recognize,” Missandei adds hastily. Tommen’s eyes are huge, while Myrcella is eyeing Daenerys with an air of curiosity. 

“No eating strange plants,” Shireen echoes. “It’s a good rule.” 

Jaime has a look on his face like that’s a rule he’d never even considered having to make. Brienne can’t help but sympathize. Something about Westeros seems to produce … unique individuals. 

“Anyway, the Martells,” Sansa says. She takes a bottle of lilac wine that Arya has somehow liberated from Syrio’s — they’re only supposed to get a small cup each but Sansa and Margaery start taking drinks directly from the bottle and passing it around. “Doran is …?”

“My oldest brother.” Oberyn Martell smiles in a way that’s not quite friendly as they stop at his law office. He’s sitting back while a small girl — presumably his daughter — hands out small scoops of lilac rice pudding. “And my closest. Doran, Elia and I -- the three of us were inseparable as children.”

Daenerys takes a step behind Brienne, like she might be trying to hide. Sansa’s cheerful smile falters for a minute and Margaery steps in to ask Oberyn if it’s true his brother is returning. Oberyn refuses to answer directly, but he smiles like he’s got a secret.

Daenerys, on the other hand, is looking a little pale when they step away and keep walking. Shireen and Missandei keep the conversation going, mostly by chatting with Bran and the kids as everyone munches on chevre with flowers, clover bread and dandelion bread pudding. It isn’t until they’re pickup up cups of steaming jasmine tea at Rose Garden that she says anything.

“Elia was married to my brother,” Daenerys says softly. “They hate us — the whole family.”

“Not just you,” Sansa says. 

Brienne must look confused, because Jaime lowers his voice and explains that Rhaegar left Elia for Sansa’s aunt — Jon’s mother. It was, apparently, a big scandal. One of the reasons the Targaryens left. 

“Well, that’s the past,” Shireen says firmly. “People can’t hold grudges forever.”

“Besides, look at this — we have a Tyrell, two Starks, a Baratheon, a Lannister and a Targaryen right here,” Missandei points. “And you’re all getting along just fine.”

“Three Baratheons,” Tommen reminds her. Missandei ruffles his hair and agrees.

Daenerys doesn’t look convinced, and she loses a bit of her spark as they finish their tour of the town. She does perk up, however, when Drogo smiles and winks at her as he offers them all shots of green smoothie garnished with flower petals. 

Brienne, on the other hand, feels like she’s going to burst into flames with the heat of her blush as Sansa drags them all to Tyene’s shop, where she gives them samples of highly perfumed massage oil and then to Obara’s where everyone gets fancy flower barrettes. Obara insists on doing something to Brienne’s hair, tutting under her breath and mumbling about conditioner. 

Bran clips his barrette to the flower garland on his chair, and Jaime pins back the front of his hair, which is nearly as long as Brienne’s. Not that that’s saying much. 

“You know what we need now?” Shireen says, after Jaime gets dragged off when Tommen sees the display of cats at the vet’s. 

“To go home?” Brienne suggests.

“Shots,” Shireen corrects, grabbing Brienne’s arm with one hand and Missandei’s with the other. Missandei grabs Arya before she can escape and Sansa links arms with Arya and Daenerys, who puts her free hand on Bran’s shoulder. With all of them around her, there’s no escape, Brienne realizes, as Shireen steers them back towards Littlefinger’s. “Then the _real_ fun can begin.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Festival round up time! Frey's Insurance gives out lavender cupcakes. The Iron Crown is closed. Reed's has [foraged nettle fritters](https://kelliesfoodtoglow.com/2012/04/10/foragers-fritters/). Crakehall & Marbrand law offices has [donuts with edible flowers](https://themerrythought.com/recipes/floral-donuts-with-blood-orange-lemon-ginger-glaze/). Balon's is closed. The Tyrell Grocer's gives out [grilled honey lavender chicken](https://www.epicurious.com/recipes/member/views/grilled-lavender-honey-chicken-50152862). Lannister Bank has [honeysuckle cordial](https://www.sunhatsandwellieboots.com/2014/08/homemade-honeysuckle-cordial.html). 
> 
> The library has a seed library open to let people grab things for their garden. Citadel clinic has [floral pasta with pesto](https://www.alphafoodie.com/homemade-pappardelle-floral-pasta-basil-pesto/), Frozen North has chamomile ice cream, Wildling's has [dandelion root coffee](https://practicalselfreliance.com/dandelion-coffee/), Sand Therapy has [lilac scones](https://www.monikahibbs.com/simple-lilac-scones/), the Martell Inn is presently closed, and Tarly's Fine Dining has [risotto with violets and asparagus](https://www.fashionflavors.it/risotto-leggero-con-viole-asparagi-e-ricotta/). 
> 
> City Hall has [shortbread with flowers](https://www.baked-theblog.com/floral-vegan-shortbread/), the courthouse has [elderflower punch](https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/apple-elderflower-mint-sparkle), Sand Snakes Boutique has [mini orange blossom panna cottas](https://www.theendlessmeal.com/orange-blossom-panna-cotta-with-candied-mandarines/), the pharmacy has [chamomile pound cake](https://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2013/02/chamomile-pound-cake-recipe.html), Syrio has [lilac wine](https://practicalselfreliance.com/lilac-wine-recipe/), Martell Law has [lilac rice pudding](https://homespunseasonalliving.com/lilac-rice-pudding/), and Baratheon Law has crackers and [chevre with flowers](https://www.diginvt.com/blog/floral-chevre-an-easy-beautiful-and-sophisticated-appetizer/).
> 
> Cregan's has biscuits with [forsythia jelly](https://thefreerangelife.com/how-to-make-forsythia-jelly/), the school is making [tissue paper flowers](https://www.verywellfamily.com/tissue-paper-flowers-craft-620428), the garden center has [flower butter with oat bread](https://www.sunset.com/recipe/flower-herb-butter), the daycare is making [cupcake liner flower](https://onelittleproject.com/simple-cupcake-liner-flowers/), Evenfall's has [floral ravioli](https://www.spoonforkbacon.com/floral-laced-ravioli-with-cheesy-herb-ricotta-filling/), Val has [dandelion wine](https://www.thespruceeats.com/how-to-make-dandelion-wine-1327932), and Tysha is making fabric flowers. 
> 
> Cassel's Bowling Alley is giving out [clover bread](http://ledameredith.com/foraging-clover-flowers-and-a-recipe-for-clover-blossom-soda-bread/), Dany has [lavender dog biscuits](https://everything-lavender.com/homemade-lavender-dog-treats-calm-dogs.html), the yarn shop has jasmine tea, Ros is handing out daisies, the gym is giving out shots of [green smoothie with edible flowers](https://www.littlewildthingsfarm.com/recipes/2017/2/1/simple-green-smoothie-bowl-wpea-shoots-edible-flowers), Gilly has [violet macarons](https://thefeedfeed.com/foodieinnewyork/violet-macarons) and the vet has catnip.
> 
> Fat Walda's has [dandelion bread pudding](https://www.latimes.com/recipe/bread-pudding-with-dandelion-greens-and-bacon), The Weekly Spyder has [mini violet tarts](https://www.cookingmesoftly.it/en/2018/04/23/violet-and-blueberries-tartlets/), Littlefinger's has shots of St. Germaine and jasmine vodka for people to try, Davos is doing face paint, Tyene has massage oil samples, Tyrion has [floral lollipops](https://gardentherapy.ca/edible-flower-lollipops/), and Obara has barrettes with flowers on them.


	88. The Place Where I Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb goes house-hunting and tries to get Talisa on board.

Robb doesn’t remember it being this hard to buy a house. Maybe it’s because he wasn’t terribly picky about his condo — it was his own, it wasn’t living with his parents, and there were no size limits on dogs. 

Looking for a family is _different_. Especially since Talisa is still insistent that they aren’t together — so he wants a house where they’ll both have enough space.

Space, Robb can’t help thinking, that could be used for more children if they do get together. Officially. 

He’s _not_ going to mention that to Talisa.

Robb is nervous when he finally finds a place he wants to show her — Talisa has said it’s his money, he should buy whatever house he wants but he’s not going to go through with a deal until she’s had some input. 

When they pull up, Robb can’t judge the look on Talisa’s face. The house is not quite on the edge of town, but close. It’s not one of the fancy neighborhoods, like the one his parents live in, but it’s nice and safe. And being further out means there’s a nice big yard that backs up against an empty lot with lots of trees. Almost like a forest 

“It’s … big,” Talisa says finally.

“I know,” Robb says. “But there’s plenty of space for both of us that way, and guests. In case your father wants to visit.”

“He doesn’t really travel much,” Talisa says, a bit distantly, as they get out of the car and the realtor lets them in.

The house is mostly on one floor, so Bran can come over without trouble. There’s a few steps up to the door on one side, but Robb can build a ramp easily enough. There is a second floor, though, that’s only about a quarter of the size of the downstairs, that the previous owners had used as an in-law unit. 

“There’s a little kitchenette up there,” Robb says, gesturing. “And a bathroom and two rooms. I thought …one of us could stay up there, if we wanted. Whoever. So if the other needs space ..”

The realtor’s eyebrows raise at that, as her gaze darts between Talisa’s now visibly pregnant belly and Robb, who is still rambling nervously.

“Then there’s a kitchen, dining, living room,” Robb points out as they walk. “And four bedrooms down here. We could have a guest room, the nursery, one of our rooms, and then maybe an office or library?” 

“There’s a laundry room on the main floor too,” the realtor points out, helpfully. “And the basement’s unfinished, but the previous owners started putting in framing to finish it out, you could have a couple more rooms down there.”

Talisa’s quiet as they walk through, the realtor chirpily pointing out the extra bathroom in the basement, along with two on the main floor. There’s a back porch, sort of, but it’s not structurally sound enough to go out on.

“It’s a lot of house Robb,” Talisa finally says.

Robb glares at the realtor until she decides she should step outside to make a call. 

“I know,” he says. “But I know you’re worried about the idea of living together and I want us to have plenty of space so we aren’t on top of each other.”

“But it must be expensive,” Talisa says. She’s chewing on her lower lip, even as she runs a hand along the mantle of the living room fireplace.

“It’s actually cheaper than some of the smaller houses I saw.” Robb shrugs. “And the mortgage will still be less than I’m paying now, if you add up the condo fees and payments.”

His condo fees are really outrageous, actually, and he doesn’t even use the gym or pool or clubhouse. Or the golf course.

“Plus it needs some work,” Robb says. “I mean, I still need to get the inspection done but assuming the major things are fine, it’s all cosmetic stuff — getting rid of some of the wood paneling, replacing the patio with a deck, a lot of paint and things.” 

A lot of paint, really, given the muddy brown color of the walls in every single room. And outside. It looks like something Robb will see in his child’s diaper, if he’s perfectly honest. “There’s original wood under the carpet,” Robb continues. “At least downstairs. And stone out front that could be sandblasted and it would look a lot better.” 

He’s thinking it might be worth adding a front porch too, along with doing the landscaping. And fencing in part of the yard so Greywind has room to run. His husky is going to _love_ having room to run. Robb will love not having to get up at the crack of dawn to walk him. 

“It’s your money,” Talisa says, again. “I mean, I don’t know what my portion of rent would be ..”

Robb reminds himself to be patient.

“Don’t worry about rent. Or just pay what you have been for your place,” he says. He can just set it aside and have it as an emergency fund for home repairs or something. “But it’s not just me who will be living here. I want to know if you think you could be happy here.”

Talisa walks around a bit more. Robb wonders if she’s seeing the same potential he is. There are lots of nice details in the place — the built in china cabinets in the dining room, the vintage-style cabinets and hardware in the kitchen — but it’s clear the previous owners didn’t do the best job of preserving any of it. Robb’s willing to bet there’s gorgeous wood trim under the paint.

He can already see the original white color of the kitchen cabinets, where the brown paint is chipping. Sansa will die when she sees them. 

The bathrooms are tragically 1990s but they could be redone eventually. In the meantime, Robb’s been reading about countertop paint and tile decals to give things a cheaper refresh. 

“It’s really nice,” Talisa admits. “Paint aside.” 

“It’ll take a lot of work to look good but I think it’s doable. I’d start with whichever rooms you want and the nursery first,” Robb says. 

“Maybe the guest room,” Talisa says, hesitantly. “It would be nice for me to have space upstairs but … for the first few weeks, at least, I could sleep closer.”

They’ve talked about how they’ll handle it when the baby is born. Assuming, of course, that Talisa gets into the medical school that’s just two hours away. Robb doesn’t know what they’ll do if she doesn’t, if she only gets into Volantis or Myr University. The Citadel is competitive enough that it’s a real concern. 

But assuming Talisa gets in, she’ll be starting about six weeks after the baby is due. It’ll be rough, certainly, but Talisa has already decided to bottle feed so she can go to school and Robb can handle late night feedings. That’s part of why Robb was drawn to the upstairs in-law unit — a place where she could get away and escape if she needs it.

“Fixing it up will be expensive too, though,” Talisa murmurs.

“Not if I do it myself,” Robb says.

Talisa raises her eyebrow at him.

“Well, with my family,” Robb amends. “And probably Val.”

Val’s almost family, right? If Theon is his brother then Asha must be his sister, so Val’s practically his sister-in-law. Never mind the fact that Robb hardly knows her. 

Plus there’s Uncle Brynden and Rickon to work on the yard, and Uncle Benjen built his own cabin out in the backwoods. Robb knows his dad did a bunch of work on their house too, when Robb was really young. Sansa’s great at decorating, and she’ll help. And Arya … well, Arya gets an employee discount at Syrio’s (which really amounts to Syrio waving a hand and naming an arbitrarily lower price) and she’s great at the destruction part of renovation. Just give her a sledgehammer and stand back. 

Talisa still looks worried. 

“If it wasn’t an issue — the money or work,” Robb says. “Just — do you think you’d be happy?” 

It feels like forever, but Talisa finally nods.

Robb beams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of the house are liberally stolen from both my house and my parents. I, too, wound up with more house than intended because it was cheaper than smaller houses. So I was like, smaller than I want or bigger and yeah, help me, what do I do with this space while I figure out how to afford children?
> 
> My parents house was painted a color my mother called dirty diaper brown, inside and out (including the stone and brick) when they bought it. They at least got as far as painting it white. It mostly stayed white (aside from my very purple bedroom) because my mother gets too anxious to pick colors. 
> 
> Also, Robb is trying very hard.


	89. I Can't Believe That Anything Should Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime visits the vet and he and Brienne use their words! Kind o.

Brienne really should stop being surprised at how often Jaime Lannister seems to pop into her life.

It’s partly that it’s a small town, and partly Sansa’s interference, she knows, but it still makes her a tad suspicious.

She’s trying her best to get past it. 

This time it’s because Jaime has brought Brenna in, an emergency appointment because Brenna hasn’t been eating.

She’s not dangerously thin, but her bones are more prominent than Brienne would like, especially along her spine and hips. Jaime also reports that she seems to be sleeping extra deeply, to the point where Tommen panicked and thought she’d died because he’d had trouble waking her up.

“And she’s unusually clingy,” Jaime says. “She doesn’t usually want much to do with any of us, but she seems to want on my lap constantly.”

Brenna does seem a little listless, as Brienne examines her. Even when Brienne draws blood.

“The main thing I’ve found is a sore on her mouth,” Brienne says. She’s hoping it’s just a result of gingivitis or an allergic reaction to an insect bite, and she tells Jaime so, but also cautions that it could be more serious. She’ll get a blood panel to check for kidney failure or signs of cancer. At Brenna’s age, both are possible. 

She also assures Jaime that it may not be the end of the world — not all cancers have a poor prognosis, and chronic renal failure can be managed, sometimes for years. Brienne got Evenfall because his previous owner was going to euthanize him due to a very early diagnosis of chronic kidney disease. Brienne couldn’t bring herself to do it, and offered to take him in instead. With a special diet and some supplementation, along with drugs to treat anemia he’s doing great. She hasn’t even had to start fluid therapy yet. 

In the meantime, Brienne gives Jaime some syringes of pain medication and an antacid, showing him how to dissolve the pill in water and then make a Brenna purrito to administer the drugs.

Jaime stares at her a long minute after she’s done.

“I don’t suppose I can hire you to come do that,” he says. 

“Not a chance.” Brienne unrolls Brenna and gives her a pat on the head while the cat glares at her in betrayal. “Get the kids to help you — it’s easier if someone is there to help with the medication and just be extra hands. Myrcella is old enough to measure out the dosage — you’re just dissolving this with water, so it doesn’t have to be super precise and Tommen would probably love to help you with Brenna.”

“I could hardly get her in the carrier,” Jaime mutters. “She’s never going to let me wrap her up like that.” 

“You’ll learn.” Brienne watches Brenna slink back into her carrier, suddenly appealing now that the alternative is being poked and prodded. “She’ll get the pain meds twice a day and the antacid three times, spaced 8 hours apart. You might also try making some soft food — you said you give her canned, but maybe offer some extra bland food. Rice and chicken is good, you can boil the chicken or use baby food. Just make sure it hasn’t got any added salt or flavoring.”

They’re at the desk and Brienne is checking him out when Jaime sets Brenna’s carrier down and clears his throat. “I was wondering if you might — maybe, sometime, want to go out to dinner?” 

“What?” 

“I mean, it doesn’t have to be a date, if you don’t want it to,” Jaime says quickly. “Or it could be a date, but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but I would like to get to know you better. When there isn’t a cat crisis.”

Brienne blinks at him, credit card receipt forgotten in her hand. 

“You don’t have to answer now,” Jaime says, though his voice is softer and almost sad when he says it. “If you want to think about it.”

“Okay,” Brienne finds herself saying, without any conscious thought. “I can … think about it.”

“Good,” Jaime says, and then Brenna yowls her disapproval before things can get too awkward.

Brienne barely keeps it together until her session with Ellaria — she’s not going to mention this around Sansa or Asha yet, or Shireen, and so Ellaria is basically the only sounding board she has. 

Which, Ellaria keeps reminding her, is her job. 

Brienne doesn’t know what to say or do — Jaime is so arrogant, and obnoxious and he has this joking air about him like nothing is quite serious. It makes Brienne nervous. 

But he’s also kind, sometimes, and clearly devoted to his niece and nephew. And he was genuinely concerned about Brenna at the appointment. 

And he’s handsome. Like, cover-of-a-romance-novel handsome. Movie star handsome. Fantasy made flesh handsome.

And she’s _Brienne_.

Sure, Addam was handsome too, but he was normal handsome. Definitely good looking, but not so much you’d be surprised to see him walking down the street.

Brienne isn’t even remotely approaching any beauty standards and she knows it. Ellaria sighs a little when she says it, but reminds her of their conversations, of the assignments Ellaria has given her to read more about beauty standards and, in particular, ways they vary around the world. 

Brienne hasn’t exactly come to any decisions by the time her appointment is over, so she’s surprised when Ellaria gives her a small smile.

“You know, in our first sessions, you couldn’t believe Addam would ask you out unless it was a prank,” Ellaria says. “It hasn’t been that long but you’ve come so far — you haven’t once said that about Jaime.” 

Brienne is surprised to realize it’s true.

“And even though you’re still worried about your appearance,” Ellaria continues. “You’ve also spent time thinking about whether or not _you_ want to go out with Jaime. That’s real progress.”

Ordinarily Brienne would deal with her conflicted emotions by avoidance. She’s aware that it isn’t a great method but it’s worked for her for 30-plus years.

Except she can’t avoid Jaime because she has to call him about Brenna.

“Her blood work looks great,” Brienne says balancing the phone on her shoulder while she microwaves a dish full of ...something. One of her Dad’s new experiments, she wasn’t really paying that close attention. “Really great, actually, so if she’s eating, I’d say give her some time for the sore to heal and maybe think about scheduling a tooth cleaning.”

Jaime is clearly relieved to get the news, which makes Brienne happy. Brenna is such a sweet cat and Brienne’s not a fool, she knows Jaime only decided to adopt her to … well, she’s not sure exactly but it seemed like he wanted to prove something or shock her during that first meeting. She’d worried, a lot, about what he was getting into.

She hasn’t seen the kittens lately, but Brenna is clearly loved and cared for. 

Jaime rambles on a little bit, tells her how Tyrion complained about cooking dinners for a cat, but how Brenna loves the little dishes of chicken and rice she’s been getting several times a day. 

Brienne is about to cut him off and hang up when Jaime stops and clears his throat.

“So, I just was wondering if you’d thought about what I said?” Jaime asks.

“I thought about it,” Brienne says carefully. 

“And?” “I’m not sure,” Brienne confesses. “I don’t — I’m not very good at this, Jaime.”

“I’m not either,” Jaime says, which makes Brienne snort out loud. 

“I’m not,” Jaime says. “I really — I’m not. But we could maybe get coffee first? If that’s more comfortable for you? It’s casual.”

Brienne almost asks for more time to think about it, but finally she agrees.

If nothing else, she can check up on Brenna. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off — Brenna is fine! She will be fine. This is based off a scare I had with my oldest recently. She had slowly eaten less and less dry food and was basically starving before I realized it. She still came for wet food but it wasn't enough and I FEEL SO BAD. All she would do is sleep and cling to me at all times. She got treated, which she did NOT enjoy, and is now putting weight back on nicely and showing more energy. 
> 
> The vet was all oh no it could be her kidneys and I panicked and then got a call like oh no her bloodwork is GREAT for an older cat. While said cat chowed down on extra plates of rice and chicken with great glee. She's VERY sad the chicky rice has stopped now that she's eating dry food and getting plumper. 
> 
> And look — progress for these two idiots! Slow, minute progress but still!


	90. Our Scars Remind Us That The Past Is Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen and Rickon discuss their pasts.

Shireen curls up next to Rickon, resting her head on his chest. She likes this part, after, and she's glad Rickon doesn't seem to mind cuddling. 

Shireen especially likes feeling how solid he is under her cheek, the way his hand is big enough to span most of her back and she feels surrounded by his warmth as they catch their breath. And she likes how he starts to play with her hair, twisting curls around his fingers.

"Why me?" Shireen finally asks, once her breathing has returned to normal. 

"Huh?" Rickon sounds half-asleep already.

"Why did you decide to ask me out?" 

Rickon groans, and Shireen props herself up on one arm. "No, I'm serious. We're almost complete opposites, we have nothing in common, I know I'm not like the other girls you've been with. So I just ... what was it about me?"

Rickon's eyes pop open. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"What? No!" Shireen feels a little panic at the thought. "Do you want me to break up with you?"

"No! But that sounds like a breaking up thing to say!" Rickon runs his hand over his face. "Although I guess it's true, that we don't have much in common."

"I sort of panicked about it," Shireen confesses. "After our first date. Missy told me I was being ridiculous."

"Thank Missy for me, then." Rickon tugs Shireen up and kisses her. It's as distracting as always, heat building in her as he swipes his tongue against hers.

Shireen forces herself to pull away. "You didn't answer me."

Rickon shrugs. "I like you." He says it like it should be self-explanatory. "Why'd you agree?"

"Because you're hot," Shireen says frankly. She feels Rickon's chest shaking as he laughs. "You pulled up in that parking lot, and I thought my knees were going to give out. And then you were so good with the kids ..."

"I got out of my car and saw you and it felt like being punched in the gut," Rickon says. "I seriously considered what would happen if I just picked you up over my shoulder and took you somewhere to fuck you until you screamed."

"A kidnapping charge, probably," Shireen says dryly. "You didn't think ... I mean, most guys like you, I figure they look at me and my skirts and sweaters and just think how pathetic and naive I am."

"Guys like me?" Rickon teases. "What are those?"

"You know what I mean. With the leather and the muscles and the tattoos and the general bad-assery." 

Shireen can hear Rickon grinning as he responds. "I thought you looked adorable"

"See! That's it though! Adorable is for children and puppies and kittens. It's not ... hot. Or whatever." Shireen groans.

"You're hot too," Rickon says. "I don't know why you can't be both."

He hesitates a long minute. "And this is gonna sound weird, but I like your scars."

Shireen touches her cheek. "Nobody likes my scars."

"I do." Rickon sighs. "Look, I've ... a lot of women I've been with are trying very hard with, what did you call it, badassery? They wear a lot of leather and metal and ride motorcycles or make porn or whatever."

Shireen suddenly feels like she has a few more things to be self-conscious about.

"But none of them have actually _survived_ anything," Rickon says. "They just want to look tough. But I look at your face and I can see ... you've been through stuff. You don't have to tell me about it, but you're not faking it. You are tough, even if you look like a Disney princess."

"Disney princesses are pretty tough too," Shireen points out. "It's Disney. Dead parents all over the place." 

Rickon hums his agreement, and they fall silent for a while. Shireen can’t quite figure out the words to say why this is so important to her.

"I was in the car," Rickon says, suddenly. Shireen had been almost asleep after a long silence. "The accident, that … shit, you don't even know about it."

He takes a deep breath. "When I was a kid, my dad got into a bad car accident. Drunk driver, one of the Greyjoys. It was me and Dad and Bran. They had to cut us out with the jaws of life and something was on fire and I was like seven? I wasn't hurt at all, but dad almost died -- they really thought he would for a while -- and Bran's been in a wheelchair ever since." 

"I'm so sorry."

"It kinda fucked me up for a while, you know?" Rickon clears his throat. "And I couldn’t say anything, because Bran couldn’t walk and Dad almost _died_ and I was just … scared, you know? Like, who gives a shit? Anyway, it's just ... I see people trying so hard to look like they're fucked up and they're not and it's just like. They don't understand anything."

Shireen traces her fingers along the tattoos on his chest. Being scared isn’t nothing, not for a little kid, and she thinks the Starks probably would have cared but she can also see why Rickon wouldn’t have felt like saying anything. Not when his dad and brother had it all so much worse. 

"It was my step mom," she finally says. "My dad ... my mom's part of Sparrow's church, and at first she was mostly normal about it? That's what he says. But then she started being one of his super devoted members, the ones that dress weird and have all those rules. That's when they got divorced."

"The old-timey dresses?" Rickon asks. "Those?"

"Yeah. But Dad had already started having an affair with Melisandre, and I guess he was swinging all the way the other direction, because she's part of some crazy sex and fire cult. He joined too, when he finally left mom and him and Mel got married." Shireen shudders. "I didn't know who I was supposed to listen to, and Mel decided I was possessed, and that's why I wasn't opening my heart to the lord of fire. So she had to initiate me. With fire. As soon as I believed it would stop hurting me ..."

Rickon sucks in air. "Someone did this _on purpose_?"

"She tied me down and started a fire around me. I think I was supposed to say I believed before it actually touched me, but my hair went up and that's about the last I remember, before the hospital. Dad divorced her after that, at least."

"How is she not in jail?"

"Nobody wanted to put me through the stress of a trial." Shireen rolls her eyes. "I think Dad just didn't want the scandal." 

Rickon pulls her closer, as much as he can when they're already pressed together.

"Man, I don't know how you didn't end up just as fucked in the head and in juvie with me," he tells her.

"Have you met my dad? He'd kill me," Shireen says. "I just ... read a lot of books, mostly, imagined that I could be like the people in the stories. Especially when mom was telling me the burns were my punishment for sinning, and dad was going on about how I used to be so pretty."

As many years as it's been, Shireen can't stop a couple of tears from falling, swiping at them with the back of her hand. 

"You _are_ pretty," Rickon says. "I mean it. I saw you there, and you just looked like this perfect princess and I just felt like I shouldn't even be allowed near you, must less get to touch you."

He rolls them over swiftly, and it still surprises Shireen even though he's done it many times before.

"So of course I wanted to get my head under that pretty little skirt of yours." One of Rickon's hands skims up her side, and he lowers his head to kiss her softly, at odds with his crude words. He moves to her cheek next, kissing gently around the edges of her scars, tracing the rough patches of skin with his lips and tongue.

He keeps going, down from her cheek, to her neck, over her shoulder, the rough skin that covers part of her collarbone and the places below, the ridges left on the top of one breast. The scars mostly fade, after that. The fire had been worst in the places her long hair touched. Below her shoulder blades, Shireen’s skin looks like nothing ever happened. 

Shireen knows she shouldn't feel turned on after the conversation they just had. She shouldn’t. But her body apparently isn’t aware of that, because it’s not long before she’s squirming underneath Rickon, who is continuing to leave soft, teasing kisses all over her skin.

She arches up as she feels his lips skim over her stomach, clutching at his broad shoulders. Shireen is embarrassingly wet already, eager for Rickon to touch her. But he doesn’t stop where she wants, just continues kissing along her legs, even her feet, which makes her laugh, like he’s trying to get every inch of her skin. 

“I did always wonder about those Disney princes,” Rickon says. He works his way up her other side, still avoiding all the places Shireen wants him to touch the most. When he reaches her breasts, his lips are feather light, more like a breath of air than a kiss. “They seemed kind of wimpy.” 

“Flynn Ryder,” Shireen manages to get out, as Rickon urges her to roll over and starts kissing down her back. “He’s the most like you. Tangled. Came out when I was a teenager. And technically Leia is a Disney princess now.”

“I always did want to be Han Solo.”

“Funny, I always wanted to kiss Han Solo.” Shireen rocks her hips against the bed, trying to get some friction. She whimpers when Rickon grabs her and holds her still. 

“Be a good girl,” he says it quietly, just a murmur of words over the skin of her lower back. Shireen actually moans as another surge of want goes through her. She can feel Rickon pausing, but then he just keeps going. 

Shireen doesn’t know how long Rickon keeps her still, kissing her body. She’s sure he’s touched every inch of it, except for her cunt, and she wants so much it aches.

Rickon flips her back over, leaning back and looking down at her. Shireen knows she must look desperate, because she is desperate, but he’s still holding her so she can’t move to touch him, or touch herself, something, anything. 

“Such a pretty princess,” he says. “It seems a shame to mess you up.”

Shireen tries again to push toward him, shifting on the bed. “Rickon …”

Rickon hums and he leans down again, this time kissing her in earnest before moving to lick and suck at her nipples. Shireen almost cries in relief, bucking her hips up and feeling him hard against her. 

“You taste like a princess too,” Rickon says. “Sweet.” 

Shireen does cry out in relief when Rickon finally, finally licks her open. His tongue teases her clit, never quite resting anywhere long enough for true relief. Rickon pulls away far too soon, but any protests Shireen has are erased when he thrusts into her, hard enough that she shifts up the bed a little. 

“Fuck,” she gasps. He hasn’t been this rough with her before. 

Shireen definitely needs him to be this rough with her again.

Rickon groans in response. “You feel so good, Shireen. So fucking good.” 

Shireen is beyond words, and all she can do is whimper and moan. She has to put a hand behind her to stop from slamming her head into the headboard, and normally that would probably make both of them laugh, but everything is too charged, too intense. When she finally comes, it’s like an explosion, like nothing else in the world exists. 

They fall asleep tangled together, and Shireen can’t imagine anything better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ElizaDunc who has had an EPIC number of chapters thrown at her lately and handled them admirably! :)
> 
> Chapter title courtesy of Papa Roach. 
> 
> Shireen and Rickon STILL have communication issues sometimes but they're working on it. Their pasts may not quite fit with the fluffy vibe of this fic but they do influence them and clearly both of them are doing much better now. 
> 
> Also, I'm clearly departing from the book/show canon of Selyse following Melisandre first. Because frankly I think it makes a better story to have Shireen pulled between two opposites in childhood. And Stannis ... well. I think Stannis maybe redeemable but he has a lot of work to do.


	91. Watching The Easter Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Easter time in Westeros!

Daenerys is starting to get used to the festival rhythm of Westeros. She’d even gone to the town council meeting in March, and weighed in on the plan Jon Arryn put forth.

It was a reasonable one, really — one festival a month, out of the year. The town already had 9 usual ones, so a vote was held on what would fill the remaining months. Ned Stark had offered an excellent presentation, and Tywin Lannister had suggested tax breaks or other incentives to help businesses recoup the costs of participating.

Daenerys thinks that’s pretty insane, given that the foot traffic has more than made up for the cost of treats (which the town already subsidizes) but from the reaction of the room, it was typical of the Lannisters. 

Even Petyr Baelish’s marketing plan was pretty decent, although some of the proposed posters made Dany a little uncomfortable with the amount of sexuality on display. She’s very glad the Midsummer festival won out for June, over Baelish’s proposed Beach and Bikinis idea. 

Westeros doesn’t even have a real beach, or even an exceptionally large lake.

The competitive spirit is even higher in April, since Arryn proposed a town award for each festival, to be given to the business that has the most impressive showing. 

It’s a silly trophy that will be passed around, yes, but God help her, Dany _wants_ that award.

She’s feeling good about this month, and her decision to partner with Brienne, Asha, and Val to set up coordinating displays at the vet’s office, hardware store and Dragon’s Egg. Even with her general feelings about non-reptilian creatures, Dany has to admit the array of fluffy chicks are very cute in the little wooden pen Val constructed for them.

They’re old enough to be gently handled, so Dany has brought her camera and she and Daario will be taking pictures of anyone who wants an Easter photo. And informing people how much work pets can be, and how chicks and bunnies don’t make good Easter gifts. Hopefully the photo op will dissuade people from purchasing their own creatures and discarding them in a few weeks.

She’s also set up a display of Easter-themed toys and even costumes, for people whose animals are pliant enough to be shoved into bunny or chick onesies, sweaters decorated like Easter eggs, or wear giant flower petals around their necks.

The festival doesn’t officially begin until noon, but the town is already buzzing. The children’s easter egg hunt started early, followed by Easter Bunny (Jon Arryn in a fuzzy costume) photos in the square. 

Dany leaves Daario with the camera and ducks out, picking up a daffodil from Ros, who is setting several large containers up outside her store, before checking on Asha and Brienne.

She finds them frowning at a playpen full of bunnies. They’re from Val’s cousin, not the shelter, since the whole aim is to discourage Easter animal acquisition, but they’re very cute.

Presumably, Asha and Brienne won’t be telling kids that the shorter-haired bunnies are destined for the dinner plate. 

“What’s up Docs?” Dany says, in her best Bugs Bunny voice.

Asha rolls her eyes. 

“They’re not very exciting,” Asha says. 

“But they’re cute,” Brienne says, reaching out to stroke one of the angora bunnies. It’s particularly fluffy, and holds still as she pets it. 

“Kids will love it,” Dany says. “And the chicks.” 

She can’t help noticing that they’ve just set up a plain white wall as a photo backdrop — clearly Sansa wasn’t consulted this time. Dany has two different areas, with pink and green fabric hung as backdrops, along with pastel balloons and fake flowers. 

“It’s good,” Brienne says. “It gets away from consumerism.” 

“Down with capitalism,” Asha agrees. “Bring on the socialist utopia.”

Brienne’s the one rolling her eyes this time.

“I heard Littlefingers is doing shots with Peeps in them,” Dany says. “Cute, but I think I’ve still got a good shot at the trophy.”

“It’s cheap plastic,” Asha points out.

“Yes, and I want it.” Dany grins. “What have you seen from the competition?” Asha shrugs.

“Dad’s doing fried tortellini,” Brienne says. “Not particularly festive, but delicious. Sansa’s been baking biscuits non-stop for whatever Cregan’s is offering.” 

“Catelyn’s ham biscuits,” Asha says. “I would cut a bitch for those.”

Dany waves a hand. “I feel good about my chances, I’m just saying.”

She ducks out then, to get back to the store in time. She and Daario will trade off later, but for the start at least, she’d like to have them both there for the rush of sugar-hyped kids. It’s going to be insane, and she sighs wistfully as she sees Shireen and Missy duck into Littlefinger’s. 

Life is unfair sometimes.

“Should we be concerned that we’re drinking before noon?” Shireen asks, as she and Missy settle onto stools at Littlefinger’s. Clegane grunts at them from the end of the bar.

He hasn’t gotten much nicer since Shireen started dating Rickon, even though it means she’s here much more often than she ever would have dreamed. Then again, he could just be annoyed with the drinks Littlefinger has them serving. He and Bronn had been bitching about it for the past week, how Baelish felt they weren’t creative enough on Valentine’s, and so he’d dictated a menu.

“It’s a holiday,” Missy says, ignoring the part where Easter is technically tomorrow. “Also there are three towns worth of screaming children outside and for once none of them are our responsibility.”

“That’s worth drinking to,” Bronn interjects and leers at the both of them. “What’s your pleasure?”

Shireen opts for the Peeps shot, while Missy stays classy with a jelly bean shooter. At least until they clink shot glasses and drink, when her face screws up.

“Ugh,” she says, setting the glass down. “Sneaky licorice is the worst.”

“That’ll be the sambuca,” Bronn says. He slides a shot that’s contained in a hollow chocolate Easter egg over, and Missy crunches into it gratefully. 

Sandor scowls at them, arms crossed over his chest.

“It looks like you killed all those Peeps and this is your lair,” Shireen tells him. There are several large jars stuffed full of Peeps and vodka, so it can infuse, and it has a bit of a mad scientist vibe. 

“Those poor innocent Peeps,” Missy says. 

“Get out of my bar,” Clegane tells them. Shireen grins.

“We’ll be back,” Missy calls as they head outside, passing Margaery and Sansa as they head down the street. Margaery has an Easter egg painted on her cheek, and Sansa’s whole face is done up like a bunny.

“Deviled eggs!” Sansa squeals, and then sighs when Walda tells them the limit is one half per person. 

Across the street a cheer goes up as somebody wins at Bunny bowling. Sansa wraps her arm around Margaery’s shoulder with a grin. 

“Let’s see the square before everybody's gone,” Margaery suggests. They grab cups of punch — citrusy and sparkly — from Baratheon law and snag bunny cake pops from City Hall on the way but there’s still plenty of people in the square when they arrive. 

“It’s so cute,” Sansa says, watching the kids happily showing Easter baskets full of eggs to their parents. 

“Aw, those remind me of me and my brothers,” Margaery says, pointing to the fountain. A little girl in a fluffy yellow dress is having a tug of war over an Easter basket with two boys in little khaki pants and pastel shirts. She’s smaller than both of them, but she still manages to get the basket and knock one of the boys backward into the fountain, where he bursts into tears.

“Just think, next year this will be Robb and Talisa,” Sansa says, her smiling turning a little bit longing. “How lucky.”

“Next year this could be us,” Talisa says, with a faint look of horror on her face as several children run past screaming at the top of their lungs. 

Robb sets down the tray of Easter egg cheesecakes he’s been carrying for her and looks out the pharmacy window. It’s a little hard to see around the display, which features a large stuffed bunny with a walker and a sign saying the store can help if your hip isn’t so hippity-hoppity anymore.

“Just one won’t be so loud,” he offers.

Talisa grimaces. “I hope not.”

“Can I get you anything?” Robb asks, as Talisa starts arranging the tray of food. “Ham biscuit? Peeps popsicle? Gilly has hot cross buns.”

Talisa grimaces. 

“A baby-free uterus,” she mutters. Her pregnancy is obvious, and Easter seems to be bringing out all the middle-aged women who want to coo over her and touch her belly without permission. Each time, Talisa looks angrier and angrier.

Kind of like Arya, really. Which is scary. 

“Not for a few more months,” Robb tells her. “I promise I’ll take the button as much as I can after that.” 

“Not calling it button,” Talisa says. 

She’s rejected all of the cute names Robb has suggested so far, since they don’t know if the baby is a girl or boy. Button, raspberry, niblet, bean.

“We have to call it something.”

“The baby,” Talisa says. “Or the fetus.”

A woman walking by gives Talisa a look of utter horror. 

“How about a lemon bar,” Robb suggests, instead of arguing more. “I’ll go by Frey’s, before Sansa can eat them all.”

He’s not running away. He’s just exercising discretion about where to be. 

Jaime smiles at the huge grin on Tommen’s face as he hoists up his Easter basket full of eggs. 

“Good job!”

Tommen starts poking at the plastic eggs. Some have chocolate inside, but most are empty. Still, he seems happy about his haul. And Myrcella has been mostly quiet, flipping through a fashion magazine and ignoring the festivities.

“All right,” Jaime tells the kids. “You know the drill for the next couple hours right?”

“Yes, Uncle Jaime,” Myrcella says. 

“And it is …” Jaime prompts. 

“You go hand out punch,” Myrcella says, with a roll of her eyes. “I take Tommen to the library, the school, the daycare and the fabric store. We can’t go anywhere else, especially any place owned by a Martell or Sand.”

“What about the vet?” Tommen asks, turning big eyes on Jaime.

“We’ll go to the vet later,” Jaime promises. “We’re meeting Brienne there, remember. And don’t go to the pet store either or the hardware store, I want to see those with you.”

Myrcella sighs. “We know the rules.”

“Oh, and the yarn store,” Jaime remembers. “You can go to the yarn store too. And Uncle Tyrion’s store.” 

“And _then_ I can go with my friends?” Myrcella asks.

“If it all goes well, _if_ you obey the rules and _if_ I meet your friends first,” Jaime tells her. Myrcella groans.

 _It will be fine_ , Jaime reminds himself, as he watches Myrcella take off, dragging Tommen towards the library to color Easter themed bookmarks. She’ll probably find a book or two at least, the Easter display the librarians set up was pretty impressive and had books for all ages. 

Jaime, on the other hand, gets to spend the next few hours filling styrofoam cups with “liquid gold” which appears to be hot spiced pineapple juice with rum and brandy. Cerenna assures him it tastes delicious, but he hasn’t felt the need to try.

He still thinks Myrcella is too young to be watching out for Tommen alone but Tywin disagrees and has insisted Jaime pull his weight. 

Jaime has yet to see his father at any of these events, much less interacting with the unwashed masses, but that argument won’t get him anywhere and he knows it. 

He snags a bundle of prosciutto-wrapped asparagus from Tarly’s before he heads in. The festival is officially in full swing and the town seems even crazier than usual, considering he can already see the feral Stark girl arguing with Selyse, who is handing out those horrible moralizing Bible tracts. It could be a long day.

“Easter is about our lord and savior Jesus Christ,” Selyse says through gritted teeth. “Not all this other pagan nonsense.”

“Not everyone celebrates Easter,” Arya argues. “And it’s offensive to try to convert people.”

“It’s _offensive_ that this town is so mired in sin,” Selyse says back. Her fists are clenched on the pile of tracts she’s holding, the ones Arya had unsuccessfully tried to swipe from the table. “Jesus died on the cross for your sins, young lady, and you will burn in the fires of hell for your disrespect.”

Arya ignores the way Gendry is tugging on her arm and plants her feet more firmly. 

“There are little kids here! You can’t tell them they’re going to hell! You just told one the Easter bunny isn’t real!” Arya lowers her voice on the last bit, in order to avoid traumatizing more children. 

“It’s pagan idolatry!” Selyse’s voice gets shriller the more she yells. “Easter is for honoring the sacrifice of our lord and the miracle of his resurrection!”

“Yeah, yeah, zombie Jesus, whatever,” Arya says. Selyse lets out a strangled shriek. “You CAN’T TRAUMATIZE OTHER PEOPLE’S KIDS!”

“I AM SAVING THEIR SOULS!” Selyse yells back.

Arya doesn’t have a chance to respond, because Gendry finally succeeds in unbalancing her and picks her up, how dare he, and starts hauling her down the street. She kicks him in the shins, but he refuses to stop to pick up any of the amazing-looking food being handed out, until they’re back at Syrio’s. Syrio barely raises an eyebrow. He’s already got a table set up inside, with bite-sized pieces of honey lemon cake speared on toothpicks (so many toothpicks, Arya hates toothpicks now) and is focusing on his window displays. One side has antique teacups, linens, and furniture in a spring garden setting. The other has a display from the “curiosities” section of the store. Apparently Syrio thinks fossilized eggs, taxidermied rabbits and chicks and an admittedly cool-looking coffin are appropriately festive. 

Whatever. Arya likes working for Syrio _because_ he’s weird.

“I will get you food,” Gendry says. “But please do not start a fistfight.” 

“Selyse wouldn’t have the guts to fight,” Arya mutters.

Gendry pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you get arrested, we can’t hang out later.”

Arya still isn’t sure if Gendry means hanging out, like, walking around town, or hanging out like finding a place her family won’t see them and making out. Either way, she does kind of want it to happen. So she gives a grudging nod, ignoring Syrio’s laughter behind her.

“Get me some of Marbrand’s alcohol pudding,” she calls after Gendry as he leaves, passing Shireen on the way. “And carrot cake!!”

Shireen waves at Arya as she and Missy pass, munching on dolma from Martells and sipping from plastic cups of Renly’s brunch punch. Shireen isn’t sure what’s in brunch punch, but it’s delicious.

Shireen wishes Arya had gone along with Sansa’s plan to have them all wear vintage Easter outfits. Arya and Brienne had been the only holdouts. Well, and Talisa, but she has a pretty good excuse for not wanting to buy fancy clothes at the moment. Even Asha had fashioned a dapper, 1920s style men’s outfit, while Sansa, Margaery, Shireen, Missy, Daenerys and Val had all found floral dresses. 

Okay, so Missy’s gone 60s instead of earlier, but it looks good on her.

Shireen kind of wonders if Rickon would have dressed up if she’d asked him, but Sansa had just laughed when she suggested it.

They’ll have to make sure to get a picture together. Maybe using one of Dany’s backdrops, after the shops close down. They should have a few minutes before the adult Easter Egg hunt starts.

They’re _not_ letting Brienne get out of that.

Shireen waves at Tommen and Myrcella, along with a few other students, who are carefully dying easter eggs at the school, with Grey’s careful help. She and Missy took the last shift, so they have a bit more time before they need to go be responsible. Sadly, she’s not going to get to see Rickon — spring is busy for the Tully landscaping crew, and he’s stuck working.

She’s pretty sure he’ll be as intrigued as she is by the sample of whipped cream flavored lube she grabbed at Happy Endings. She and Missy had spent far too long sorting through flavors and looking over Tyene’s display of rabbit vibrators.

Sansa and Margaery meet up with them, and they quickly devolve into gossip at Wildling’s. Especially when Ygritte hands them samples of lavender latte while mentioning she saw Jaime and Brienne getting coffee and planning to meet up at the festival.

Sansa and Missy squeal so loudly people nearby jump.

“I knew it,” Sansa crows, as they duck out and snatch up date cookies from Ellaria and rhubarb custard from Tyrell’s. “I knew there was something going on.”

“We don’t know it’s romantic,” Shireen cautions.

Margaery snorts. “It definitely is on his end.”

“We should respect her privacy,” Missy says.

That does not stop them from blatantly staring after Jaime as he leaves Lannister’s and sets off down the street. 

Jaime has never been happier to leave the bank. And he’s usually pretty happy to get away from his family. Genna had teased him mercilessly about putting on a fresh shirt and fixing his hair, but Jaime is dressing to impress for his not-date.

It’s not a date because Brienne isn’t sure, and also because he’s going to have at least one child in tow.

He finds Tommen and Myrcella at the daycare. Tommen excitedly shows Jaime his pom pom bunny and the fabric bunny he also made, and the yarn carrot and his colored bookmarks. Myrcella mostly refrains from rolling her eyes and munches on an Easter Egg-shaped Rice Krispie treat.

“Varys was outside,” she says, when Jaime narrows his eyes. “I didn’t go into the Weekly Spyder, I was on the sidewalk.”

Tommen’s Easter Basket is nearly overflowing as they make their way to the vet where Brienne is handing a camera over to a maniacally grinning Asha.

“Brienne!” Tommen shouts, then his eyes get big. “Are those bunnies?”

“They are,” Brienne confirms. “Bunnies don’t make good presents, but they are pretty cute, so we’re letting people pet them and take pictures. That way they won’t try to get a bunny of their own.”

And dump it a few days after, presumably. 

Jaime smiles. Even Myrcella can’t be too snarky about bunnies, and both kids pose for photos. Tommen picks a particularly fluffy specimen that looks almost as big as he does. 

Asha insists on taking the photos along with one of Jaime with the kids, while giving Brienne significant glances. Jaime isn’t sure if he’s supposed to notice that or not. 

It’s nice to have the buffer of an activity, though, and Brienne seems less awkward with Tommen’s distracting chatter. He’s equally delighted by the baby chicks at Dragon’s Egg and the lambs Val has at the hardware store. Jaime is delighted by the pictures, especially the one of Myrcella sitting amidst fake flowers, surrounded by fluffy chicks and the one of Tommen holding an armful of the animals with balloons all around him. 

Dany insists on taking a picture of Brienne and Jaime, which brings the awkwardness back in full force.

“This is for children,” Brienne mutters after Dany forcibly tows her in front of the camera.

“There have been just as many adults in my store, don’t even pretend you haven’t seen the same,” Dany retorts. She starts snapping photos while Jaime tries to distract Brienne by handing her a handful of fluffy baby birds. 

He’s moderately successful.

Brienne refuses to stop and look at the photos being printed out, but Dany shakes her head behind Brienne’s back and mouths “show you later” at Jaime so he’s fine with it. 

Jaime grudgingly lets Myrcella go with her friends — the Martell boy is nowhere in sight, thankfully — and insists on grabbing cups of white sangria for both of them as they walk along the street.

Tommen chatters excitedly at both of them, as they stop to look at the window displays. It seems everyone is determined to stand out. Brienne thinks it’s excessive, but Jaime thinks the decorations are great. Downtown is getting so much more life in it — a few years ago, he wouldn’t have even walked down the section of Main Street where Brienne and Asha have their office, at night, but now it’s becoming a major part of the town. They bicker good-naturedly about it, so much that Reed’s is closing for the evening when they make it there. The younger Reed kid, the weird one, hands them cups of lemon balm tea anyway, and asks Tommen about his Easter basket full of goodies and that gives Jaime a chance to pull Brienne off to the side.

“I had fun,” he says. “I mean, I know this isn’t … I’m sure you would have enjoyed it more without the kids around.”

“It was nice,” Brienne says, though she won’t look him in the eye and her face is turning red. “Tommen and Myrcella are good kids.”

“Still, it’s not a lot of time for us to talk.” When Brienne shrugs and looks away, Jaime sighs. “I like talking to you.” 

Brienne looks visibly startled at that. Jaime has no idea why.

“I could call you?” It’s meant to be a statement, but it comes out as a question. It seems like an eternity before Brienne nods.

Then Tommen is running back over and Jaime needs to collect Myrcella and get them both home before the adult egg hunt begins, but overall he doesn't think the day went _too_ badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ElizaDunc for her amazing beta skills!
> 
> Chapter title is from Easter Parade by Jump, Little Children.
> 
> Since the notes section is limited, festival details are now on Tumblr. You can find Easter [here](https://dancinginthecenteroftheworld.tumblr.com/post/632505325895008256/the-easter-chapter-of-my-small-town-au-is-going-up).
> 
> Fashion! Shireen's [dress](https://www.unique-vintage.com/products/1950s-cream-pink-floral-eyelet-ellen-swing-dress) and [hat](https://tenthstreethats.com/collections/womens-easter-hats/products/kentucky-derby-straw-round-crown-ladys-secret). Sansa's [dress](https://www.unique-vintage.com/products/1950s-cream-light-blue-floral-tulle-melissa-swing-dress) and [hat](https://www.etsy.com/listing/821476592/vintage-light-blue-floral-ladies-hat?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=womens+easter+hat+blue&ref=sr_gallery-2-30&organic_search_click=1). Val's [dress](https://www.unique-vintage.com/products/1920s-style-sage-floral-ruffle-maxi-day-dress), Missy's [dress](https://www.unique-vintage.com/products/smak-parlour-1960s-black-daisy-print-mod-dress), Margaery's [dress](https://www.unique-vintage.com/products/ivory-fruit-punch-print-sleeveless-cotton-swing-dress) and [hair accessory](https://www.etsy.com/listing/741047078/tropical-hair-clip-hair-accessory?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=tropical+fascinator&ref=sr_gallery-1-32&col=1), Dany's [dress](https://www.unique-vintage.com/products/grey-floral-embroidered-flute-sleeve-dress), and Asha's [outfit](https://pyxis.nymag.com/v1/imgs/fd2/cd8/56806a3363b6db8d48c08862387853bb1a-Jazz-MG-9425.rdeep-vertical.w450.jpg), except hers has long, wide-legged pants. 
> 
> Someday, perhaps Arya and Brienne will join in and perhaps Shireen and Rickon will swap styles once in a while. :D


	92. I'm A Challenge To Your Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya struggles with her family and the post Easter gathering (and hangover).

Arya wants to burrow into her bed and never leave when Sunday morning arrives.

The Easter festival had been fun but the adult egg hunt stretched on way too late. And Gendry kept dragging her off to the side and kissing her which was fine, except it really limited Arya’s ability to win.

She still scored a bunch of chocolate, several mini bottles of booze, a couple of not-awful temporary tattoos and coupons for Fat Walda’s and the bookstore. Plus a guest pass for Vaes Dothrak. 

She’d also gotten some fancy hairpins, a couple of condoms and samples of edible lube that she’d tried to hide as soon as she opened the eggs. And something called a dental dam that had set Sansa and Margaery off laughing, so Arya’s pretty sure it’s for sex.

Sansa had taken the hairpins, at least, but she’d insisted Arya keep the other stuff, waggling her eyebrows and looking at Gendry, who was very definitely not looking at either of them. 

Then Rickon had shown up and dragged them all off to Littlefinger’s, which opened back up. Even Robb. There were too many shots, way too much sugar, and at some point Baelish had sent some of his strippers over to entertain the post-egg hunt crowd. Arya did not need to see half naked women dancing on a bar, especially not when Ygritte and Margaery decided to join in, albeit slightly more clothed. 

It all gets fuzzy, but she has dim memories of Robb starting to cry at some point, Jon and Bran singing along to the music and pretending it was real karaoke, Shireen and Rickon getting way too handsy for public, Brienne trying to hide behind Sansa when the crazy, bearded gym teacher came in, Missandei and Dany kissing on a dare, and one of the guys from the gym running around trying to bench press people. 

Arya also has the horrible feeling that she’d demanded Gendry give her a piggyback-ride home, while Lommy and Hot Pie laughed at them both. 

Arya really needs her own place. 

Or just better roommates.

Ugh.

Forget her roommates, Gendry is never going to let Arya live that down, acting like a silly girl. 

Her siblings are never going to let her live it down either, though hopefully they’ll be hungover too, enough that nobody will bother with her. 

Arya gets her wish, at least through church. Their parents give them disappointed looks as they straggle in, in varying states of disarray. Except Sansa, who looks perfect, even if she’s wincing every time the organ starts to play. Jon’s curls are a mess, Bran is falling asleep, Robb has two different shoes on and Rickon is definitely wearing the same clothes as the day before. There’s still mud on his jeans.

Arya feels like she should get credit for at least putting on clean pants, matching shoes, and one of the girlier shirts her mother snuck into her closet one day. 

It has a scooped neck and it’s all flowy and shit, but it’s blue instead of pink and it doesn’t have any ruffles or flowers or glitter so it’s not _too_ bad. 

The incense is way too strong and Robb gets green around the gills before slipping out to the parish hall at a quick clip. 

Their general state of misery does not exempt any of them from brunch at Tarly’s. 

“I see you all had fun last night,” Catelyn says, lips pursed, as they sit down at the table they’ve reserved.

Benjen tries to turn his laugh into a cough but doesn’t quite succeed. Now that she thinks about it, Arya dimly remembers seeing him at the bar too.

Great.

Another person who will tease her mercilessly.

“The festival was lovely,” Sansa says brightly.

Ned gives her a skeptical look.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Sansy-pants,” Robb says, ruffling her hair. 

Sansa scowls at him before smoothing her hair back into place and waving over at the Tyrell’s. Margaery looks like she’s about to face-plant into her eggs, and Loras actually has his head down on the table, eyes closed, while Olenna holds court.

“As long as you don’t get arrested,” Grandfather Tully says, peering over his court. “I don’t want to see any of you in my court as adults.”

“Except as a witness,” Jon says dryly. 

Arya skips the mimosas in favor of a large mug of coffee, though Sansa, Robb and Rickon all seem to be subscribing to the hair of the dog method of hangover cures. 

“They were all together,” Benjen offers. “At least they still like each other.”

“They do now,” Ned mutters. 

“Well we should all toast to Sansa,” Catelyn says. She raises her glass. “Yesterday was a big success, and if you hadn’t talked everyone into the Christmas party, nobody would have believed an event like that would be possible.”

Even Arya can’t deny that, and she grudgingly clinks her mug with Uncle Edmure’s, as Sansa smiles and thanks everyone.

“There was nothing wrong with the egg hunts and photos,” Grandfather says. 

“No, but this is something new,” Brynden says. 

“We don’t have official results yet, but foot traffic was up at least 300 percent over a usual holiday weekend,” Ned says. “People came from all over the county, and even some who were visiting the area from out of state.” 

“Syrio sold a ton of stuff,” Arya confirms. “Lots of china and jewelry, even a couple of pieces of furniture.” 

“We ran out of Peeps popsicles,” Bran offers. 

“We ran out of biscuits by three,” Cat admits. “We’re really going to have to up the numbers for food prep next month.”

“A lot of places ran out,” Robb says. “Or had to make more on short notice.”

“We should look into using a commercial kitchen next time,” Ned says. Arya knows he wasn’t happy about the way the baking took over her parents house. “Maybe one of the restaurants, or the church would rent to us.” 

“Why not just pay them to cater?” Arya asks.

Sansa and her mother look like she just suggested they murder puppies for fun.

“Because it’s about showing off our town,” Cat says. “This should come from us.”

The restaurants are also part of the town, Arya doesn’t know why it matters, but then nobody’s making her cook so she doesn’t really care. 

Syrio better not try to make her cook, at least.

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Rickon says. He groans when everyone looks at him suspiciously. “I mean it!”

“Having a girlfriend’s really changing you, isn’t it?” Brynden says.

Edmure laughs. “The power of a good woman.”

Cat looks like she’s about to say something when Rickon jumps in.

“Not just a good woman,” he says. “Arya was having a lot of fun with her man last night.”

He’s too far awake to kick under the table so Arya settles for scowling at him.

“The one from the Christmas party?” Ned asks. “Gendry?”

“Oh,” Cat says, surprised. “You’re still dating him.”

Arya opens her mouth to deny it, then realizes she can’t, not really, and shoves a forkful of Eggs Benedict in her mouth to buy time. 

“They’re very cute,” Sansa says. “He’s very sweet, even when she’s being a brat.” 

“And they kept sneaking off to kiss during the egg hunt.” Jon, the little snitch, rats her out. _He’s_ close enough to kick at least, and jumps in his chair when Arya gets him in the shins.

Catelyn looks deeply confused. 

“You should bring him by for dinner,” Ned says. In his voice that means it’s really a command.

“We’re not all couple-y,” Arya mutters. 

Cat raises her eyebrow and Arya flushes.

“It’s not like _that_ , either.” Arya pokes at her potatoes. “I dunno, he’s not so bad.” 

“That’s high praise from you,” Grandfather comments. 

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Arya snaps. Ugh. This is why she hates telling her family things sometimes. Everything has to be Important And Meaningful.

“So,” Robb says, in the slightly awkward silence that follows. “I bought a house?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ElizaDunc for her beta work!
> 
> Title from Natalie Merchant. 
> 
> Arya is being very stubborn here, and isn't helped by her family's needling, to be honest. As you might guess, an adult egg hunt is much like a kids, except the plastic eggs are filled with different, more fun things. Well, except chocolate. Chocolate is the same for both.


	93. Where My Girls At?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne doesn't get much of a reprieve before she's being dragged out for drinks and interrogation.

Brienne gets three whole days after the Easter festival before Sansa insists on dragging her out for drinks. 

It’s more than she thought she’d get, but she’s under no illusions about the fact that Sansa is waiting to grill her about spending time with Jaime.

Brienne reluctantly follows Sansa to Tarly’s. The booth is already occupied and Shireen slides a cocktail over to Brienne when she sits down.

“It’s purple,” Brienne says, examining the glass. At least it’s a fairly subtle purple, unlike the eye-searingly bright monstrosity Shireen had before.

“It’s a classic,” Shireen tells her. “The Aviation. I hope you like gin.”

Brienne hasn’t really had enough gin to hold an opinion on it, so she takes a tentative sip. It’s not bad, though she isn’t sure she’d be able to actually describe what it tastes like, if pressed.

Shireen is sipping something white and fluffy-looking, the glass decorated with coconut and a marshmallow, while Missy has a pink drink in a fancy glass. Asha is sipping something orange and surprisingly fancy-looking 

Sansa has just ordered her own drink when Dany, Talisa, Margaery, and Arya arrive, squeezing into the already crowded table. Brienne finds herself squashed between Missandei and Arya, who looks grumpy.

Talisa, on the other hand, looks murderous.

“The next person who touches my stomach is getting their hand chopped off,” she mutters, taking her peach mocktail from the waitress. 

“So, pregnancy’s going well?” Asha deadpans. The look Talisa gives her could level a small building.

“I can’t drink. I can’t eat sushi. I can’t even have _eggs_ cooked decently,” Talisa rants. “Strangers keep touching my stomach, everyone wants to know the gender as if it makes any difference to an infant and your brother bought a gigantic house.”

The last part is clearly directed at Sansa and Arya. 

“We heard.” Arya shrugs. “If you break up, we’ll just all move in with him to fill the space.’

“Arya!” Sansa hisses, elbowing her sister.

Talisa looks a little better at that, though, cracking a small grin. 

“Well, that’s something.” She takes another sip of her mocktail. “I am just so ready for this to be over. I cannot believe your mother did this five times.”

“I’m not sure she intended all five,” Sansa admits. “But she liked the end result at least.” 

“I wish humans could lay eggs,” Dany says, wistfully. “Like reptiles.” 

“In seahorses, the males carry the babies,” Brienne offers. 

“Can we get research done on making that possible for humans?” Talisa sighs. 

“Robb would carry the baby in a heartbeat,” Sansa says. “He really would.”

“I know,” Talisa says. “And I am glad for how involved and excited he is. But his life isn’t going to change as much as mine has to — not for a while, anyway.” 

Sansa takes a sip of her drink which smells, even from afar, like soap to Brienne. But Sansa seems happy with it. Brienne braces herself for what she knows is coming. 

“So Brienne,” Sansa says. “I heard you had a good time with Jaime Lannister at Easter.”

Every head at the table swivels to look at her and Brienne groans. Arya pats her arm sympathetically, but doesn’t offer any distraction. 

“We walked around the festival,” Brienne says. “With Tommen.”

“And we heard you’ve been at Wildling’s together,” Margaery says, eyes wide. 

Brienne can feel her face eating up.

Dany looks up from where she’s fishing a piece of jalapeno out of her drink. “You were so cute together,” she says. “I really love the photos of you two with the baby chicks.” She pops the piece of pepper into her mouth, chewing happily.

Brienne groans. “Please delete those photos.”

“Not a chance,” Dany says cheerfully. “But I did refuse to give them to Varys.” 

Thank god for small favors. 

“He really seems to like you,” Shireen says. “A lot. He looks so happy around you.”

“And he fixed his shirt and hair like five times leaving the bank,” Missy adds.

Brienne gapes at them. 

“Were you spying on me?”

“No,” Sansa offers unconvincingly, exchanging looks with Margaery, Shireen and Missy. “We just happened to be there.”

“Ygritte told them you were meeting.” Asha cheerfully rats the other women out. 

“I didn’t tell Ygritte,” Briene says, baffled.

Talisa snorts. “In this town, everybody knows your business whether you tell them or not.”

“Truth,” Arya mutters. She looks over at Brienne. “I mean, I guess kissing isn’t the worst thing.”

“Not you too!” Brienne can’t help feeling betrayed, but Arya just sips her drink, which is a mildly unappealing shade of brown. 

Surprisingly, Missy is the one to save her after that, suggesting everyone try each other’s drinks. Brienne’s time with Jaime is quickly forgotten in a round of exchanging cocktails. Brienne has learned from experience not to try anything Dany orders, as it will scorch her tongue, but Sansa hasn’t and turns a shade of bright red. And Missy makes a terrible face at Arya’s drink, which Brienne had thought was actually all right.

“Licorice,” Missy says. “Why am I always betrayed by licorice?”

“It’s absinthe,” Arya says. 

“Isn’t that supposed to make you go crazy?” Margaery cocks her head.

“No, that’s a myth,” Dany says. “Wormwood does have hallucinogenic properties, but there’s not enough of it in absinthe to have any effect.”

“Even if you smoke it, you don’t really hallucinate. It can help with lucid dreaming,” Missy adds. She shrugs when the table stares at her. “Learned it from a guy I met backpacking in the Sierra Nevadas.’ “Huh,” Dany says, an interesting look in her eye. 

“Legal?” Asha asks

Missy nods. 

The conversation devolves from there. Missy, Dany, and Asha start debating the merits of various legal and not-so-legal substances, while Arya and Talisa talk about the tyranny of gender roles. 

Unfortunately, that leaves Sansa, Margaery, and Shireen free to turn their attention back to Brienne.

“We’re just really happy for you,” Sansa says. “Really.”

“Jaime’s smitten,” Margaery says. “We all see it.”

“If _you_ don’t like him, then we’ll drop it,” Shrieen adds.

“I don’t know,” Brienne mumbles, looking back down at her drink. It’s surprisingly empty and Sansa flags the waiter over for another round.

“But you’ve been talking?” Margaery prompts.

“We had coffee a couple times,” Brienne admits. “He wants to go out to dinner but I don’t know .. what if I screw it up like with Addam?”

“You didn’t screw it up with Addam, though,” Sansa says. “You went out twice.”

“And you seemed friendly and normal at the flower festival,” Shireen adds. 

Brienne hadn’t felt friendly and normal, she’d felt hopelessly awkward but it’s good to know it wasn’t apparent to anyone else.

“I heard he’s dating Dacey Mormont, maybe,” Margaery says. “If she decides he’s worth it.” 

“So, you went out and it didn’t work,” Shireen says. “That happens.”

“And you’re still friendly, and nobody’s upset and nothing bad happened,” Sansa adds. 

“But …” Brienne trails off.

“Look, do you like talking to Jaime?” Margaery asks.

Brienne nods.

“And you like spending time with him?” Sansa adds.

Brienne nods again.

“Then why not try?” Shireen suggests. 

Brienne shrugs. “When you say it like that it seems so reasonable.” 

“Because it is.” Sansa flashes her smile, and starts distributing drinks around the table. There’s a moment where Talisa’s peach mocktail and Margaery’s peach gin fizz get mixed up, and Talisa looks both annoyed and grateful for even a tiny sip of a real drink. But then Brienne’s friends let the topic go, amazingly enough. 

It’s a pretty good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drinks! Talisa has a [peach shrub mocktail](https://setthetableblog.com/peach-shrub-mocktail/), Sansa has a [lavender lillet fizz](https://simplyjessicamarie.com/blog/lavender-lillet-fizz-cocktail-recipe), Asha has a [toast and marmalade cocktail](https://imbibemagazine.com/recipe/breakfast-cocktail-toast-and-marmalade/), Brienne has an [Aviation](https://mixthatdrink.com/aviation-cocktail/), Margaery has a [peach gin fizz](Https://www.freutcake.com/in-the-kitchen/drinks-anyone/peach-gin-fizz/), Arya has a [round robin](https://mixthatdrink.com/round-robin/), Dany has a [grapefruit and jalapeno drink](http://countryliving.com/food-drinks/recipes/a45485/grapefruit-ranch-water-recipe/), Missy has an [Angel's Delight](https://mixthatdrink.com/angels-delight/), and Shireen has a [Cottontail Margarita](https://www.delish.com/cooking/a19576340/cottontail-margaritas-recipe/).
> 
> I have not tried any of these but want to, alas, my alcohol stocking budget cannot accommodate all my desires just yet.
> 
> I completely headcanon Missandei as a low-key hippie who does a lot of backtrapping trips and unusual travel experiences.


	94. This Is Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The real estate agent clearly thinks Robb's plan is crazy, but that's because they don't know the Starks.

The real estate agent clearly thought Robb mentioned his condo was closing just two weeks after he closed on the house. While it’s technically liveable, there’s clearly still a lot to be done. Luckily Talisa’s lease doesn’t run out until the end of May, so he had some time to get it really good but it’s still going to take a lot of manpower to get started.

Luckily a lot of manpower — or person power, really — is something the Starks have. 

Robb is the first to arrive, but only just, carting armfuls of supplies into the house before everyone else starts trickling in. 

By ten, Arya and Rickon are already mostly done demolishing the back porch, sweaty and grinning with sledgehammers and crowbars in their hands, while Brynden and Edmure work on fencing off a portion of the side and back yard for a dog run. 

“It’s certainly something,” Cat says, when his parents arrive. She hands over a tray of lemon rolls, and everyone stops working long enough to shove food in their faces. By the time that’s done, the rest of the crew has arrived and Robb gives a quick tour.

He tries very hard to ignore the way his mother tenses and purses her lips when he mentions the upstairs will be set aside for Talisa, to have her own space. 

“Well,” Ned says. “The upside is, you can only increase the value by working on it.”

Then everyone gets put back to work. Benjen and Ned start ripping up the old carpet, carting strips of it out to the dumpster Robb rented. Catelyn rolls up her sleeves and starts priming the walls in the downstairs bedrooms, while Robb starts carefully trying to remove paint from the trim, to see if the wood underneath looks like he hopes it will.

Sansa has dragged her boss along, and the two of them are carefully removing all the kitchen cabinet doors while Bran helps bag the hardware up and label everything. Asha has joined the wrecking crew out back, and is otherwise providing muscle to haul things while Val pokes around.

“You’ll want someone to look at the chimneys before you light any fires,” Val says. “Did Lyra look it over?”

“The only major thing she found was the porch,” Robb says, carefully peeling off another strip of paint. He’s a few layers down, all various shades of white and beige. “And the dishwasher doesn’t work.”

“Is it just not working or is it actually broken?” Val asks.

Robb shrugs.

Val sighs, and picks up her toolbox, heading towards the kitchen. Sansa pokes her head out, looking disgruntled at being displaced. 

“Do you want to paint the cabinets or try to strip the old paint off?” Sansa asks him.

“Painting seems easier?” That’s been Robb’s plan anyway. “White. But prime first.”

“Of course,” Sansa says, in the tone that clearly means I’m-not-a-moron-brother.

Then his parents start bickering about whether or not the floors should be refinished first or the paint should be done first. Robb rolls his eyes. His parents are very careful never to fight in front of them, or even disagree about anything serious, but they’ll bicker endlessly about trivial matters.

“If the paint splatters, it will ruin the floors,” Ned says, prying another baseboard off so he and Benjen can start cutting carpet in the dining room.

“But dust from sanding will stick to the paint,” Cat argues. “And you could knick it with the sander.” 

“Which will be covered up by baseboards,” Ned replies. 

Robb decides to leave them to it, as he doesn’t really know which is actually better and every source he’s found seems to contradict the previous ones. Checking on the kitchen seems like a better plan.

“Dishwasher’s broken,” Val says. “I mean, technically it might be fixable but the parts are cheap plastic so good luck finding a replacement.”

She scowls at the appliance like it’s personally offended her. 

Robb adds dishwasher to his mental list of things that are needed. He nods, and directs Bran outside to work on painting the cabinet doors. Benjen and Ned both brought sawhorses, so it should be a good height. Sansa is already starting on the inside of the cabinets while Brienne goes to help with the carpet removal. Asha hauls the broken dishwasher away to the dumpster, giving Val a consoling kiss as she mutters about disposable appliances and overflowing landfills. 

With the porch demolished, Robb sends Arya to help Sansa.

“Just because I’m small doesn’t mean I get stuck doing stupid work like painting,” Arya says.

Robb ruffles her hair. “It does when you’re the one of us least likely to destroy their back doing the lower cabinets.”

Arya huffs, but obeys. Then Robb has to wade into yet another argument, this time Rickon and Brynden arguing about plans for a replacement deck. 

“A deck is not necessary,” Robb says, as Brynden argues for a brick patio with a separate outdoor grill and stove, plus pizza oven and Rickon argues in favor of a plain wooden deck. Robb privately agrees more with Rickon, since he doesn’t know what he’d do with a pizza oven.

“Or a hot tub,” Brynden suggests, as Robb herds the both inside to help with priming. “You could install a hot tub.”

Robb doesn’t know what he’d do with a hot tub either.

Jon arrives at lunch, with Sam and a platter of sandwiches from Gilly’s bakery. Everyone sprawls in the empty and freshly de-carpeted living room to eat and give Robb advice he didn’t ask for.

“You need a color scheme,” Sansa suggests. “Something to unify the house.” 

“And more furniture,” Cat adds. “You don’t have nearly enough to fill this space.”

“What’s your plan for the wood paneling upstairs?” Val asks, around a mouthful of carrots and hummus. 

Robb shrugs. “Is there a way to fill in the cracks? I don’t like the look.” Val and Benjen exchange looks. “You’d be better off removing it,” Benjen says. “You know why they put up paneling, right?”

“The seventies?” Robb guesses.

“To hide the problems underneath,” Val and Benjen chorus in unison.

Robb groans. 

After lunch, they’re all back to work and it goes well until Val and Benjen finish building a ramp to the kitchen door and decide to start clearing out the stuff that’s been left in the garage so they can inspect the walls. After dragging out half a dozen boxes, Val and Benjen both back quickly out of the garage.

“So,” Benjen says. “You might have a den of rattlesnakes in your garage.”

“You definitely have a den of rattlesnakes in your garage,” Val corrects.

It’s enough to get everyone’s attention, and before long they’ve all trooped to the yard to stare at the garage from a safe distance.

“Well, there’s only one solution for that,” Arya says.

“Kill it with fire?” Sam suggests.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “No. Call Dany.” 

Jon goes a little pale at that, which makes Robb cast a curious look at him. It doesn’t make much sense until a truck pulls up and a petite blonde woman with violet eyes that can only mean she’s a Targaryen hops out.

Dany — who must be Daenerys, Robb realizes, he hadn’t even known she was in Westeros again — pauses at the sight of a cluster of Starks and honorary Starks. Robb’s parents must make the connection too, because Cat clutches Ned’s arm, and Robb’s father takes several slow, deep breaths that mean he’s trying to stay calm. 

Sansa, on the other hand, rushes forward to hug Dany, while Arya and Jon give friendly waves. 

Dany’s handshake is firm when Robb greets her, and she disappears into the garage with a large bucket and pole. After a bit, she sticks her head out and asks for help moving the remaining boxes so she can make sure to get all the snakes.

Robb leaves Asha and Brienne to that job, along with the task of helping Daenerys poke at the boxes outside to see if any snakes have settled in them.

“I still think we should kill it with fire,” Sam says, from where he’s peeking out a window while helping paint. 

By dinnertime, everyone is exhausted and Daenerys has had to retrieve a second bucket, ultimately emerging with about twenty angry rattlesnakes. She doesn’t seem perturbed, even when they shake their rattles and strike at the clear plastic sides. 

“I’ll take them further out and release them,” she explains. “Poor guys, found such a nice cozy home and now it’s gone.” 

“As long as they aren’t here,” Robb says.

Then Brienne’s father arrives to deliver a giant stack of pizzas and Sansa invites Dany to stay, so there’s an incredibly tense silence, punctuated only by Selwyn and Brynden’s murmured conversation about flooring options. 

“So,” Cat finally says, casting a look around the room. “Have you been in Westeros long?”

Dany shakes her head, swallowing her pizza. “Just moved this past year.”

There’s another long silence, but everyone is too busy eating to help Cat. Rickon is double fisting pizza slices and Arya is trying to eat her way through a string of gooey cheese that’s threatening to pull all her toppings off and onto the floor. Even Sansa has cheeks bulging with food. 

“She owns the new pet store,” Jon jumps in. “It’s nice.” 

Dany gives him a grateful look. 

“Oh,” Ned says. “You two already know each other?”

“Well, she is my aunt,” Jon says. “And it isn’t her fault what Rhaegar did. Or Aerys.”

“Of course not,” Cat says, although she’s still holding herself a little stiffly. 

“My mom always talked about how much she loved it here,” Dany says softly. “I wanted to come see where I was born, and I guess I fell in love with it.”

“It’s easy to do that,” Ned says. “How is your mother doing?”

“She’s okay,” Dany says. “But it’s still hard on her.”

Ned nods. Dany finishes her slice of pizza and stands.

“Well,” she says. “Thank you for the food and it was great to meet you all, but I should get those snakes to a more appropriate home.” 

Everyone agrees with that, and the tension eases a little. By the time it’s all cleaned up, Robb thinks good progress has been made. All of the carpet is out, most of the downstairs is primed, the hazardous deck is gone, there’s a run for Grey Wind and he’s stripped two and a half window frames of paint, revealing wood that will be absolutely beautiful once re-stained. 

He’s looking forward to making the house a good home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ElizaDunc for her beta work! 
> 
> Robb: This is totally doable.
> 
> Reality: It is not.
> 
> Painting the inside of cabinets is HELL, it is HELL I tell you and I fucked up my shoulder for several months doing the lower ones in my kitchen. And then got side tracked and now there's two upper cabinets to finish, that's it but I can't seem to get to it. And I really need to.
> 
> In this universe, some of the Starks have dogs and some do not, mostly to shoe-horn in storylines I would like to include. LOGIC. 
> 
> Poor Dany, meeting the Starks. She's got a lot of nerves, and the eldest Starks have prejudices against Targaryens. 
> 
> Also! Someone asked about ages, so here's a rundown of some of the major characters. Cat is 50 and Ned is a few years older. Robb is 32, Sansa is 29, Arya is 27, Bran is 25 and Rickon is 22. Talisa is 28, Margaery is 30, Gendry is 31, Meera is 27, Shireen is 26. Jaime is 43, Brienne is 37, Myrcella is 12 and Tommen is 8. Asha is 36 and Theon is 33.
> 
> Hoster Tully is 78 but still working as a judge, Brynden is 70, Lysa is 46 and Edmure is 42. Rheagar is 52, Lyanna 47 and Jon 32 like Robb. Rhaenys is 34, Aegon is 33, Viserys is 39 and Dany is 36.
> 
> Technically they should have aged in this past year but I'm pulling the magical fiction trope out and saving that because I have to sort out appropriate birthdays and astrological signs so let's just handwave this all. Cool? Cool.


	95. In The Still And Silent Dawn Another Day Is Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May Day in Westeros!

Jaime isn’t sure if Myrcella is more excited for May Day or getting a day off school — technically not a holiday for the whole country but none of the Westeros kids go to school despite that fact. The May Day festival has been a tradition for decades. Jaime remembers the year Cersei was crowned May Queen, giddy and smiling in her white dress. 

His mother was May Queen as a teenager too, Jaime’s found photos in old albums. 

He’s glad Myrcella is too young to be in the competition this year. He doesn’t think he could handle dealing with that — although she does insist on getting up early to wash her face in dew.

“For beauty,” she tells him solemnly, carefully bringing a leaf to her face. 

“You don’t need help with that,” Jaime tells her. 

It’s just as well she wants to wake up, because Tommen insists on going to see the Morris Dancers dance up the sunrise at the Gift. 

The dancers are very energetic, as is Tommen, but Jaime feels like he needs a nap as they drive back home and walk down to the streets. Most of the stores aren’t open but Gilly lets them in while she bustles around setting up. Tommen chews thoughtfully on a strawberry muffin while watching Gilly. She’s got some sort of cheesecake cut into small bites to hand out, but she’s also arranged a display of cakes, tarts, and cupcakes for sale. Tommen seems particularly enchanted by the cupcakes that look like little baskets filled with treats.

Jaime is glad to see the kids so enthusiastic about anything, but when the stores start to open, Tommen drags him off so fast he barely even catches a glimpse of Brienne opening up the door to the vet’s.

Brienne feels adrift, since Sansa has firmly pushed her out of the vet’s and declared that the entire day is covered by shelter volunteers and Brienne should go have fun. 

Usually she takes at least a few hours of time to man the office during festivals, and it feels very strange to have nothing to do. But Sansa pointed out (quite accurately) that Brienne isn’t terribly crafty. Since they’re offering people an opportunity to make charms for their pet’s collars, with lots of bells in different sizes and colors and some charms Sansa rounded up from somewhere, Brienne wouldn’t be much use.

So she’s left Sansa, Mrs. Celtigar and a few other volunteers, armed with needle-nosed pliers and enthusiasm, and is now left to her own devices. 

At least until someone finds her. Brienne can see Daenerys and Shireen down the block, so she’s certain it’s only a matter of time.

Daenerys grins at the small children outside her store. 

“These are fried grasshoppers,” she says. “This month I wanted to have a treat pets __and__ owners could eat.”

She demonstrates, picking up a couple of the insects and crunching away.

“Ewwwww!” one of the children shrieks at top volume.

“Those are bugs,” another says, astonished. Shireen, who had stopped to say hello to the families, laughs. 

The parents, Dany notes, don’t look much better than the kids.

“That’s right,” Dany says. “You know, bugs have lots of protein. People in other countries eat them quite often. I first tried these when I was in Thailand.” 

“Gross,” one boy declares.

Dany frowns. “Just because it’s not something we’re used to doesn’t make it gross.”

“You wouldn’t like it if someone called your food gross,” Shireen adds. “And it might be just as strange to people from other countries as this is to you.”

“But they’re __bugs__ ,” the child says, outraged.

“So are you brave enough to try them?” Dany holds out the bowl, and waits. Most of the children decline, though a couple of kids and parents take a grasshopper. One child spits his out onto the sidewalk immediately after biting into it but another crunches thoughtfully.

“I don’t think that’s going to get you the trophy,” Shireen says

“That’s okay,” Dany casts an eye to the shiny item, displayed prominently in her window. “Someone else should get a turn, I suppose. Though they really are quite nice.” “I’ll stick with Rodrik’s Scotch eggs,” Shireen says, taking a bite of the one in her hand. “No offense.” 

“None taken,” Dany says. She waves at Jon and Sam, wandering back toward the square. “It’s an acquired taste. Or a brave one.” “I’ll bring Rickon by later,” Shireen promises. 

Jon is glad that it’s warm enough to shed their heavy coats and not suffer too much for it. He and Sam have morning patrol, so they can’t linger anywhere too long but that hasn’t stopped them from snatching bites to eat.

The only stores you really need to linger in are the ones doing crafts, after all, and Jon doesn’t feel any particular need to make a flower crown. 

“It’s nice, don’t you think?” Sam says. He snags a bannock from Val, nodding to her as they walk. 

Jon has stuck to some of Jaqen’s honey oat bread and a glass of fruit punch from the courthouse — if nothing else, he can trust that it’s non-alcoholic — and is trying to get a handle on the crowd numbers.

It seems even more than the previous month. Which is good but kind of astonishing. Cat and Sansa had been in a panic all of the week prior trying to get everything made. 

“It’s a lot of people,” Jon says.

“Good for the town though.” Sam pauses to admire the window display at Cregan’s. Sansa had created a virtual waterfall of cascading flowers that dances behind the mannequins modeling spring fashions. 

“As long as they don’t actually move here,” Jon says. “Don’t want to get too big.” 

“I heard the Martell’s are moving back,” Sam said. 

“Sansa said that,” Jon says. He considers it. “Could get interesting.”

Sansa smiles at the people leaving the vet’s office with new charms for their pets. She’s so glad people are enjoying the beads and bells. She even brought shrinky-dink sheets to make tags with names and phone numbers, though she’s also being careful to hand out the brochures with information on microchipping animals to make sure they can be recovered if lost.

“I think this looks great,” Tormund says, holding his little white dog up. The animal now has a cluster of yellow and pink bells on it’s collar. “Suits her well, doesn’t it Crusher?”

Sansa can’t help raising an eyebrow at the dog’s name, but nods. Tormund kisses the pup on the nose before setting off, though not before he hopefully asks if the big woman vet is in.

Sansa really hopes Brienne never hears him refer to her that way. She isn’t sure if Brienne would punch him or cry, but Sansa doesn’t particularly want to see either happen. 

“You should go have fun, dear,” Mrs. Celtigar says. She’s been marshalling a force of elderly volunteers to sit at the desk. “We aren’t up to walking around, someone should!”

“At least let me bring you something,” Sansa says. They shake their heads, but she’s planning to ignore it.

Obara promises to drop some of her floral bath salts over later, when Sansa sticks her head in the salon. She pockets her own sample happily, thinking how nice a scented bath will be later. She’s __not__ going to take anything from Tyene’s store and she’s pretty sure lemon protein balls aren't going to go over well with the senior citizen crowd either.

Sansa isn’t even sure they go over well with her and she loves lemon. But she smiles at Drogo and Irri, and swallows it anyway.

She’s definitely not trying the grasshoppers, even though she sees Arya crunching away on a handful while Gendry looks on with vague horror.

“I’m not kissing you after that,” Gendry tells Arya. “Not until you have at least a couple drinks and maybe make use of the toothbrush Stannis made you take.”

“They aren’t bad. Mostly just salty,” Arya says. Dany grins at her.

“Nope.” Gendry shakes his head. “They’re bugs.” 

“If you eat one, I’ll wear a flower crown,” Arya challenges him.

Gendry looks at the bugs and then at Arya. ‘No you won’t.”

“I will.” Arya holds up her hand. “Pinky promise.”

It’s worth it for the look on Gendry’s face as he tries to chew the grasshopper as little as possible before swallowing it.

“Crown second,” Gendry manages, towing Arya across the street. “Liquor first.”

Grendy manages to grab four or five of the Moscow Mule jello shots before Bronn yanks the tray away but he still swears he can taste insect.

“Liar,” Arya tells him. The lemon drop shots are great — she’ll have to tell Sansa, she’ll flip over them.

“You know how fucking long it takes to make those?” Bronn grumbles, staring at the quickly emptying tray of jello shots. “Fucking Baelish.”

“What’s wrong with plain booze?” Clegane says. He’s holding a tray of pink shots topped with cream. “Not all this girly shit.”

“Real men aren’t afraid of pink drinks,” Gendry tells him, and grabs one. He looks pleasantly surprised when he’s finished. “Strawberry shortcake!”

“You have whipped cream on your nose,” Arya tells him, and laughs as he quickly scrubs it off.

“Now for your crown, m’lady,” Gendry tells her. Arya sighs but follows him to Ros’s, where Robb is leaving already, a wreath of flowers clutched in his hands.

Boy, Arya would love to see how that goes over. 

Robb times it perfectly to meet Talisa as she’s coming off her turn manning the table at the pharmacy. 

“I thought maybe you’d like to walk together?” He offers her the crown of flowers. 

Talisa hesitates, but takes it. “I suppose.”

Neither of them has any interest in craft projects, but they grab seed bombs from Lonely Hills and oatcakes from his parents. Cat, of course, inquires after the baby while Ned asks if Talisa’s heard back from the Citadel yet.

“Should be any day now,” Talisa says. “I’m crossing my fingers, especially since it would mean I could do part of my residency right here.”

Ned makes small talk with Talisa, and Cat purses her lips but stays silent at least until —

“When are you thinking of holding your baby shower, dear?” Cat tries for a small smile. “And which of your friends would be hosting?”

“I haven’t really thought about having one,” Talisa answers. 

“Well —” Cat hesitates, glancing between the two of them. “If you’d let me, I would be honored to host. Or I could ask Sansa to do it, of course, I know the two of you are friends.”

 _ _Ask Sansa__ , Robb attempts to convey with his eyes, but fails. 

“I’d like that,” Talisa tells Cat. “Thank you so much for offering.”

The two women share tense smiles and Robb sighs. Looking out to the street, he can see Bran rolling past, Meera at his side, and he wishes he could feel as carefree as his younger brother.

Bran grins up at Meera, who is merrily waving the flower wand she’d crafted at Between the Covers. Tyrion Lannister had seemed vaguely confused and overwhelmed by the craft station in his store — Bran had heard him moaning to his brother that it wasn’t his idea — but everyone else seemed to enjoy it.

Both of them have had their faces painted at Davos, opting to buy one of the premium options rather than go for the simple, free flowers. Bran can feel the paint drying on his face, now entirely covered with leaves and greenery. Meera had opted for the smaller version, and she has what looks like a mask of green leaves and twigs over her eyes and nose. It goes well with the crown of flowers perched on her curls. 

“I love May Day,” Meera says happily. “I can’t wait to go hiking again.”

Bran still feels a small pang of sorrow at that, but covers it with a small smile. 

“Do you have big plans?” He asks, instead, as they roll through the square.

“Some,” Meera says. 

Bran still has goat cheese and green pea crostini and asparagus frittatas on the plate on his lap, but he manages to make room for Tarly’s grilled lamb bites and the rhubarb, strawberry, and chamomile galette Hodor is passing out in front of Tyrell’s grocer. 

“Jojen and I are thinking of hiking Children of the Forest later this summer,” Meera says. Bran can only be impressed — it’s one of the most difficult areas in the Gift and it’s only passable for a few short months of the year. And sometimes not even then. More than one hiker has been found, frozen on the high elevation, having thought September was still a safe time to venture out.

“Of course, it depends on when Mom’s here,” Meera says. 

Jyanna Reed is one of the rangers stationed in the most remote parts of the Gift and she only comes into Westeros once a year, for a short break with her family. The rest of the year, she spends months alone in a cabin, with occasional supply runs to one of the ranger outposts closer to civilization.

Bran doesn’t think the isolation would be too bad but he doesn’t know how Jyanna and Howland stay married. Somehow they seem to make it work, though, delighted to see each other and unphased by the long separations.

And at least Jyanna comes back. Nobody’s seen Gerion Lannister in years though Benjen swears he radios in and appears to use the supplies dropped off. 

“Of course,” Bran says. 

Meera looks sideways at him. “Maybe we could go on the Nightwatch trail again, it should be finished.”

“I’d like that,” Bran says, probably too quickly. He stares across the street for a moment, where a librarian is entertaining a crowd of children with some sort of story. “A lot.”

Tommen and Myrcella are engaged enough in the folktale the librarian is telling that Jaime feels safe running to his office to drop off the collection of crafts they’ve acquired. He doesn’t have enough pockets and he’s tired of juggling all the things the kids pick up.

The mini-Maypoles, sachets, and fairy doors can wait in his office. Even Myrcella had been genuinely interested in the tiny doors, which Jaime has gathered are meant to be affixed to random trees. Jaime empties his pockets of seed bombs, bath salts and collar charms made for all three cats as well. 

Maybe he should start carrying a briefcase or something. 

Luckily, he escapes Aunt Genna’s notice and isn’t pressed into service passing out trays of rose shortbread, dipped in dark chocolate and ostentatiously decorated with edible gold. He isn’t sure where it came from, but he knows nobody in the family baked it, unlike some of the other stores. Aunt Genna must have had it catered from somewhere. 

He grabs another caramelized onion tart from Ellaria, and some punch with a definite kick from Lothar Frey, and finds the kids just as enthralled as they had been when he left. Tommen has ignored his cone of lavender ice cream so long it’s dripping onto his hand. 

Jaime hasn’t kept track of where the story is going. Something about dragons, maybe. 

He has a brief moment of hope when he sees Brienne across the street, but she’s being ganged up on by both Stark girls, and wild horses (or dragons) couldn’t drag Tommen away from the storytelling session so he has to settle for trying to wave and hope she sees him.

“You have to make and wear a flower crown,” Sansa tells Brienne. 

All Brienne wanted was to get a sorrel and onion tart from Reed’s and maybe another little container of mint and calendula quinoa from the clinic. She does not want to put a ridiculous wreath of flowers on her head.

“Even Arya has one,” Sansa points out. 

Arya sighs. “I told Gendry I would if he ate a grasshopper.”

“That boy is wrapped around your finger,” Sansa tells her sister. Arya makes a face.

“No, he’s not! It isn’t like that!” Arya protests. 

“And you’re wrapped around his,” Sansa continues. “It’s cute. You need to bring him to dinner.”

Brienne tries to slink away while they’re arguing, but Sansa catches her arms. Both she and Arya are carrying plates of food, for the elderly ladies left at the vet’s office.

“I’ll just help you carry stuff,” Brienne suggests.

“I already got Walda to promise to take some strawberry shortcake over, and Margaery was taking some of the honey milk down,” Sansa says, successfully distracted. “But I heard Addam’s making crepes!”

Addam is, indeed, making crepes when they go into the law office. He has a small, round electric pan and is carefully pouring batter on it and spreading it around with a little wooden instrument. Another man — tall, strong, and bearded — has a small hotplate and is heating something in a pot, while also mixing up what looks like a syrup.

“Ladies!” Addam says. “May I help you?”

Sansa explains their mission, and Addam grins. He calls to someone in a back room to make more batter, and Brienne hears a blender start to work. 

Addam cheerfully asks how everyone is doing as he makes crepes, passing them to the other man, who fills them with yogurt and drizzles syrup over top. Sansa winds up with several plates of them, stacked carefully atop the ones already in her arms.

“That looks inefficient,” Addam observes. 

“It is.” Sansa frowns. “But the volunteers from the shelter don’t get around so easily to get it themselves.”

“Huh.” Addam looks reflective. “We should do something about that.”

“And also the waste,” Brienne says, looking at the trash can already overflowing with plastic forks and paper plates. “Everyone’s putting their food in disposable containers and nobody’s recycling.”

“Most plastic doesn't end up getting recycled anyway,” Arya says. 

“Yeah, I read that NPR article too.” Addam frowns. “We should bring these issues up at the next town meeting.”

“Tywin won’t care,” Sansa says.

“If we do the right research, we can make him,” Addam suggests. “Cost-benefit analysis, and we’d need a plan on how to address it already developed.”

Somehow, the conversation ends with all of them agreeing to meet at the coffee shop later, and to bring anyone else they think would be interested.

“What just happened?” Brienne asks faintly, as they start back towards the vet’s office. She waves at Missy and Shireen as they walk by.

“Sansa,” Arya says sagely.

Shireen still feels jittery from the espresso she got after her free ginger latte a few hours ago — Ygritte definitely snuck some extra shots in there. 

“Do you think,” she asks Missy, “that if I drink enough Maywine it’ll cancel out the caffeine?”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.” Missy finishes the spinach tart from Martell’s and starts in on the blueberry fool from Sand Snakes Boutique.

“I mean, alcohol makes me sleepy,” Shireen points out. She drains the rest of her not-alcoholic honey punch and shrugs.

“After you cycle through giggly, friendly and horny,” Missy points out. 

“Rude.” Shireen takes another bite of her honey orange cake. “I think we need to test this theory.”

Missy shrugs. “I’m game.” 

If nothing else, Shireen figures it will make the Maypole dance extra interesting this year. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sitting on this chapter a bit, because I think we all need some good cheer for election day. (For those not in the US — well, sorry, we're losing it over here.) 
> 
> Thanks to ElizaDunc for her beta skills!
> 
> Full list of festival offerings and links are [on Tumblr](https://dancinginthecenteroftheworld.tumblr.com/post/633779906987409408/small-town-au-may-day), due to space constraints. 
> 
> Morris Dancers on May Day sunrise is a thing that happens in Berkeley, and I loved when I lived in California. 
> 
> I did not describe the taste of grasshoppers much because I have not tried them. I probably would, especially after a couple beers. I mean, if Anthony Bourdain can do it ...
> 
> I know backcountry rangers don't work quite this way and are usually only out for a few months at a go, but its fiction so there you go. I'm also tired of dead moms/wives all over, as GRRM seems so fond of them. So pretend that there are a few rangers in very remote sections of a massive state park, living in cabins and picking up supplies once in a while or having them dropped in by helicopter. 
> 
> I hope you all survive this election day/week/month and the country doesn't absolutely lose it's shit in dangerous and violent way.


	96. So You Wanna Get Married (Or Run Away)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion wakes up with an idea.

“Let’s get married.”

The idea comes to Tyrion when he wakes up after the May Day festival. Tysha is curled up in bed next to him, hair messy and her cheek streaked with pink and green paint from the blossoms Davos painted on her cheek the day before. 

“What?” Tysha blinks sleepily.

“Let’s get married,” Tyrion says, more firmly this time. “Today.”

“What?” Tysha sits up. “Tyrion, are you serious?”

“You know, May Day is basically a fertility festival,” Tyrion says. “WIth the maypole symbolism and all. And some say it’s a marriage between the green man god and the goddess.”

“And some people say you should leave offerings for fairies and drive your cattle between bonfires,” Tysha says. “So?”

“Well, we don’t have cattle,” Tyrion points out.

“No, we don’t.” Tysha squints at him. “But I don’t see how this leads to us getting married.”

“I like waking up with you here,” Tyrion says. “I want to do it every day. Why not now?”

He doesn’t mention that he saw Tywin lurking around the bookstore on May Day. Tyrion had hoped leaving the bank would make his father lose interest in his life but it hasn’t. 

For all Tywin hates Tyrion, Tyrion is still a Lannister. And Tyrion knows his father wouldn’t consider Tysha an appropriate match. He’s sure the man would go to great lengths to break them up.

One of Cersei’s boyfriends had, after all, found himself deployed overseas after a few well-placed phone calls. Another’s father had received an excellent job offer in Mexico, resulting in the whole family packing up and leaving. 

It wouldn’t be impossible for Tywin to break them up once they’re married, but it would be harder.

Tyrion doesn’t think he should mention all that in a proposal though.

“Is the courthouse even open on Saturday?” Tysha wonders. 

“I can make a few calls.” Tyrion looks at her. “That wasn’t a no.”

“This is insane,” Tysha says. Then she starts laughing. “Okay. Let’s get married.”

The morning is a whirlwind of activity. Jaime is confused by Tyrion’s insistence that he and the kids come to the courthouse at 2, and Judge Tully isn’t thrilled about coming in on short notice, but he agrees. 

Tysha insists on having her father there and getting a white dress and Tyrion has to rush to Cregan’s to purchase rings. They’re plain gold bands, but they’ll do for now, even though Tysha insists she doesn’t need anything fancy.

Ros is delighted to put together a bouquet of flowers, clapping her hands and giving Tyrion a kiss on the cheek. She gives Tysha a lewd wink and an assurance that she’ll be in for a satisfying marriage. 

Tyrion cringes but Tysha laughs. 

At the courthouse, Tysha’s father’s jaw drops when he sees them approach, Tyrion in a suit and Tysha in a simple white dress, wildflower bouquet clutched in her hand.

“You should have told me!” Duncan says. “We’d have dressed up!”

Duncan is wearing jeans and a worn shirt, the woman behind his wheelchair is wearing scrubs. They do look slightly out of place next to the Lannister’s, Jaime in a suit and the kids in fancy clothes, even though Tyrion hadn’t told them why they needed to be there.

“Why did you think I’d want you at the courthouse?” Tysha asks.

Duncan mutters something that sounds a lot like “bail” which Tyrion chooses to ignore. 

Maegelle Frey grins at them as she fills out the paperwork. Judge Tully is the last to arrive, giving the assembled group a raised eyebrow. Duncan Crofter holds Tysha’s hand, looking like he’s closed to tears. A woman Tyrion vaguely recognizes from the clinic stands behind him, pushing his wheelchair and grinning broadly at everyone. 

“Shoulda done it yesterday,” the woman says. “May Day’s a day for marriage.’

“See!” Tyrion says. Tysha rolls her eyes.

“Thank you for getting Daddy here, Osha,” she says, hugging the woman.

“Can’t let him miss this,” Osha replies. “Look at you, marrying a fancy man.”

Tyrion isn’t sure he’s fancy, but he supposes it’s better than being referred to as short. He doesn't get a chance to say anything, though, because Jaime is pulling him off to the side.

“You’ve only been together five months,” Jaime says. “Isn’t this rushing?”

Tyrion shrugs. “Maybe, but why not?” 

“She isn’t …” Jaime makes a series of gestures that Tyrion assumes are meant to indicate pregnancy.

“No!” Tyrion sighs. “I just realized I want to marry her and I want to do it before father can find out and ruin it.” 

There’s a long pause, then Jaime digs something out of his pocket. 

“I admit, I had an idea this might happen … so just in case. It was mother’s,” Jaime says, opening his palm to show a diamond engagement ring. The stone is substantial but not nearly as much as Tyrion would have imagined. Then again, he knows Lannister bank was a profitable but not hugely successful community bank before his father turned it into the giant it is now. He supposes Tywin didn’t _always_ have obscene amounts of money.

“But shouldn’t you ..?” Tyrion isn’t going to choke up over this, he isn’t. “I mean, I didn’t even know her.”

“She was still your mother.” Jaime shrugs. “Besides when am I ever getting married? You are, and you should have this. I don’t know if it will fit, though.” 

“We can get it resized.” Tyrion takes the ring carefully. “How did you get it without father knowing?”

“Snuck into the safe while he was at lunch with Aunt Genna,” Jaime admits. 

Tyrion feels a small bit of guilt about not calling Aunt Genna. Of all the Lannisters, she’s the one who has been the kindest to him. To all of them, really, especially as children.

But she’s still close to Tywin and Tyrion doesn’t entirely trust her not to let anything slip.

Tyrion doesn’t get much opportunity to dwell on it, though, because Judge Tully is clearing his throat impatiently and Tyrion _did_ call him in on his day off, so they should make this quick.

They use standard vows, and Osha produces a camera from somewhere and snaps pictures as they all stand there. Duncan tears up a little when Tysha says “I do” and Jaime looks like he’s suspiciously close to crying as well. Myrcella holds Tysha’s bouquet while Tyrion slides both rings on her fingers, and her eyes get big when she sees the diamond. 

Tysha has to bend down to kiss him, but there’s no laughter, nobody says anything rude. The only sound is Tommen clapping enthusiastically. 

Even Judge Tully musters a smile when they break apart and he pronounces them man and wife, before he promptly shoos them all out so he can close up the building and go home.

Jaime insists they should celebrate but nobody really feels like Tarly’s, it’s too stuffy and pretentious for such a nice day, so instead they wind up at Evenfall’s. The owner — Dr. Tarth’s father, Tyrion recalls — insists the meal is on the house and they all eat pizza and lasagna until they’re stuffed. 

Because nothing stays secret in Westeros for long, somebody from Tyrell’s pops by to supply a bottle of (cheap) champagne and Gilly Craster appears shortly after with a cake.

“It’s not traditional,” she says shyly, placing the cake on the table. “But I know you like strawberries.” 

The last is directed at Tysha, who beams and gets up to hug Gilly. The cake has layers of shortcake with whipped cream and mounds of fresh strawberries and it’s delicious. 

A stream of people come by after that, mostly other business owners. Tysha is constantly hopping up to hug people — Val from the hardware store, Margaery Tyrell and Sansa Stark, even strange little Syrio Forell. Davos comes by and advises them that wedding tattoos are a bad idea, Drogo from the gym thumps Tyrion on the back so hard he almost falls over, and Tyene Sand slips a package to them with a wink and advice to open it later. 

Tyrion finds himself surprisingly touched by the display. He knows almost everyone in town of course, but that doesn’t make them his friends and he’s shocked by the amount of well wishes they receive. Even if he knows they are mostly directed at his new wife.

Tyrion knows it won’t last — his father will soon find out about his marriage and it won’t be pretty, but for the moment? It’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND SLIDE..
> 
> Sorry. Goo Goo Dolls moment. It will ... not pass because I've been obsessed with Dizzy Up The Girl since 1998 but we can shove it back into it's corner. 
> 
> Thanks as always to ElizaDunc for her beta-ing.
> 
> Tyrion! Impulsive! I decided to give him and Tysha a little bit more time dating in a modern AU, but the elopement had to happen at some point.
> 
> Osha works at the Citadel Clinic and also does home health care and is delightfully stern and blunt with her patients. Duncan thinks she's great. 
> 
> Anyway, a happy chapter for a happy weekend with election results that mean we might escape fascism (frankly, I don't trust Trump not to try to burn it all down in the next few weeks) so here! CELEBRATE.


	97. A Little Mystery To Figure Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry finally meets the Starks.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Arya warns Gendry again. 

She stares out the windshield at her parent’s house. It’s still there, still crammed with cars in the driveway. Why is her family so nosy?

“You’ve said,” Gendry answers.

“I mean, it’s dinner. We’re not going to suddenly be all …. Couple-y.”

Gendry looks confused. “But we are a couple?”

Arya huffs out air. “But not a _couple_ couple.”

“I mean — Do you not want to be a couple?” Gendry suddenly sounds weird. “I thought you were — I mean — we —”

“I like what we’re doing,” Arya tells him, carefully avoiding the words dating or making out. “But just because you come to dinner, I’m not going to suddenly want to be all wanting to, I don’t know, hold hands all the time or make you buy me jewelry or giggle at everything you say.”

“Why would I want you to do any of that?” Gendry sounds even more mystified now. “I like you how you are ‘Arry.”

He smirks at that and nudges her with his elbow. Ugh. Arya never should have let him meet Lommy and Hot Pie and Mycah. Gendry had howled with laughter at her childhood nickname and immediately taken to using it. 

“I mean it.” Arya glares. “My mom and sister are going to be all, _aw Arya’s finally acting like a girl_ and I don’t want you getting ideas.” 

“I won’t,” Gendry promises. 

Finally, Arya sighs and gets out of the car. There’s no point in delaying it. Her father had demanded Gendry’s presence and she knows, just knows, this is going to be miserable.

Maybe she should have just kept letting her parents think she was a lesbian

Everyone is in the den, as usual, her father at the bar. He shakes Gendry’s hand with more force than Arya thinks is necessary and blandly offers him a drink. Gendry leaves the choice up to Ned, saying he doesn’t know much about cocktails. 

Well, it’s better than Ygritte asking for Long Island Iced Tea. 

Gendry definitely scores a point when he takes the Manhattan and makes an approving sound after sipping it.

Not that Arya cares if her father approves, she’s not some damsel who can only marry someone her parents pick.

Not that she’s marrying Gendry.

Or anyone. 

Everyone is here again, even Talisa, who is not usually present and who is definitely looking at Gendry’s arms in a way that makes Arya want to punch her a little bit.

Her mother has clearly realized Arya is not happy about this plan, because when she calls everyone to the table, it’s obvious she’s made a lot of Arya’s favorites. There’s salmon with lemon-y sauce, boiled potatoes with dill, roast potatoes with rosemary, honey glazed carrots, what Arya thinks is her favorite lemon ginger spinach (it’s definitely spinach, at least) and the minty pureed peas that is the only way Arya has ever eaten peas and enjoyed them. And big baskets of the good, restaurant-style rolls.

Gendry’s jaw drops when he sees the table. Ygritte looks similarly awed, and Arya remembers she hasn’t been here on a company night. 

Arya pokes Gendry until he moves. “I’m hungry, sit down.”

As usual, it’s fairly quiet while everyone loads their plates up and starts tasting everything — it _is_ the lemon ginger spinach, score! — but it doesn’t last. 

“Our little Arya,” Robb says, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “All grown up.”

“Shove it,” Arya tells him. She’d like to throw something, but all the food is too good to waste.

“I always knew you’d realize feelings aren’t so bad,” Sansa beams, taking a dainty bite of salmon. Margaery kisses her girlfriend on the cheek, as if to prove the point.

“I bet he’s good in bed,” Ygritte says, a speculative look in her eye. 

Arya and her mother choke on their food in unison, while Gendry looks alarmed. 

“We’re not —” Arya yelps, at the same time Gendry says “It isn’t —” 

“What’s the point in dating then?” Ygritte asks, while Jon turns red and sinks lower in his chair. 

“I respect your daughter very much,” Gendry tells Ned, looking more than a little panicked. 

Benjen and Brynden look like they’re trying very hard not to laugh and grandfather Hoster lets out a snort. 

“He’s got no leg to stand on, son,” Hoster says. He points at Robb. “That one was born seven months after their wedding and he wasn’t an early baby.”

Arya has never seen her mother’s face go so pale. 

“What, you think I can’t count?” Hoster says. He looks at Robb and Talisa. “Though they did _get_ married.”

Robb turns red and tries to hide behind his wine glass, while Talisa seems unphased. 

“Robb asked me to marry him and I said no,” she says firmly. “I am not going to get married just because I’m having a baby, I’m going to get married when I’m in love.”

Robb looks a little pained at that, and Hoster mutters under his breath, but Talisa just takes another bite of peas and compliments Cat on the meal.

Arya really, really likes Talisa. 

“Also, your daughter is twenty-seven,” Asha points out. “She’s gonna have sex at some point.”

Ned chokes on his food this time.

“Can we not?” Arya pleads. 

“She wouldn’t have sex with me,” Theon muses, to no one in particular. 

“Cause you’re gross,” Arya says. 

“I don’t really want to think about my baby sister having sex,” Jon says. He’s always called Arya sister, even though they’re cousins and even though it drives Cat crazy. 

“It can be nice to take relationships slow,” Sam says. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Gilly and I are doing the same.”

Arya doesn’t know whether she should be relieved by his support or annoyed with the continued discussion of her sex life which is not anyone’s business. 

Her mother, at least, is distracted by the mention of Gilly and moves on to encouraging Sam to bring her by for dinner sometime. Sam, of course, doesn’t want to impose and Cat has to reassure him he’s one of the family, not a guest. 

“We’re going to run out of room at the table,” Bran says, looking around. “If everyone brings someone.” 

“There’s two more leaves in the basement,” Rickon reminds him. “We make it work at Thanksgiving.”

“That’s going to be bigger this year too,” Bran points out. “The way it’s going.”

Ned decides it’s a good time to start grilling Gendry on his life. The news that Gendry is a mechanic doesn’t seem to go over terribly well. 

“I couldn’t afford college,” Gendry says frankly. “My mom’s a waitress and my dad wasn’t in the picture.”

“He would have helped you with money,” Ned says, in a tone that tells Arya he hasn’t missed Gendry’s striking resemblance to Robert Baratheon. 

“Dad was Robert’s best friend,” Arya whispers to Gendry, when he looks baffled.

“I didn’t want his money,” Gendry says. “If he wanted nothing to do with me, I don’t need anything from him.” 

“Gendry’s a great mechanic,” Sansa says. “He’s the one who finally figured out why my car kept dying all of a sudden.”

Ned still looks annoyed, but Arya shoots her sister a grateful look. Ned moves on, but still looks unimpressed as he finds out that Gendry doesn’t hunt or fish or do much hiking. All are things Arya’s father considers basic skills — it’s like he thinks they’re all going to end up living off the land after some sort of apocalypse. All of them can procure food in the woods, start a fire with no matches, and know how to find shelter just about anywhere, even Sansa and Bran. 

“I blacksmith,” Gendry offers, when asked about his hobbies. “And I’m learning to play bass.”

Rickon perks up at that and Arya glares at him.

“No you do not need to start a band,” she says.

“Yes I do,” Rickon says, a gleam in his eye. “Hey Gendry, do you like metal?”

The debate over metal versus classic rock versus pop music consumes pretty much the whole table, aside from Hoster who insists that jazz is the point at which music stopped evolving and started going downhill. 

It could have gone worse, Arya supposes, but she knows the night isn’t over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! Unbeta'd, because I'm being impatient and so please forgive any mistakes. 
> 
> Recipes: [lemon ginger spinach](https://www.thekitchn.com/recipe-lemon-ginger-spinach-242881), [peas](http://www.theamusedbouche.com/2011/03/15/spring-pea-puree-with-mint-aka-mushy-peas-2/) and [rolls](https://www.food.com/recipe/golden-corral-rolls-97632). 
> 
> So, hey! How are we all doing? I hope everyone is holding up as we all face hunkering down again since so many idiots can't be bothered to take precautions in a pandemic. Stay safe, everyone! And hopefully some fluff will help raise your spirits.


	98. How Different We Have Come To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siblings bond after dinner with Gendry.

Sansa’s not sure if her mother feels bad that Arya is clearly so uncomfortable with Gendry or if she’s trying to encourage Arya to bring Gendry around more, but she’s made all of Arya’s favorites for dinner and dessert.

Not that Sansa’s complaining about it, trying to make room for small pieces of strawberry rhubarb pie, chocolate cream pie and blueberry buckle. There’s more awkward conversation while everyone eats dessert, before the adults — well, they’re all adults now, but the adult-y adults — drift out and her parents head upstairs. 

“You all suck,” Arya announces, once Ned and Cat are out of the room.

Ygritte opens her mouth to say something and Jon shoves a bite of pie into it.

“You two are just so cute,” Sansa cooes. Okay, they’re sitting as far apart as possible on the crowded sofa, but she can just tell they want to be closer. Gendry’s been glancing and Arya and fidgeting all night, like he wants to take her hand or put his arm around her.

Sansa doesn’t know what’s stopping him. 

“No we aren’t.” Arya folds her arms over her chest. “This is why I didn’t want to bring him.”

“Mom and Dad interrogate all of our partners,” Robb points out. “You knew it had to happen.” 

Sam looks alarmed. “I hope they like Gilly.”

Sansa doesn’t think it’s possible to dislike Gilly, and says so. 

“We’re not a couple like that,” Arya says again, and Gendry looks a little wounded.

“Don’t say that,” Sansa scolds her little sister. “That’s mean.”

Talisa pats Gendry on the arm, which she’s clearly been wanting to do all night. Both Robb and Arya make little growling noises in their throats. 

“It could be worse,” Talisa says. “You could be in my shoes.”

Cat is still struggling with the whole baby situation, and she clearly isn’t hiding it well. Sansa thinks it would be better if her mother just backed off and left well enough alone, but Cat insists she should be involved. 

Theon shrugs. “She’s never liked me and it hasn’t stopped me from being here.”

“Unfortunately,” Arya says. Theon sticks his tongue out at her. 

“Well, I’m glad, I was worried you’d never date,” Sansa declares.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Bran interjects. “Some people don’t want to. Like Jojen.”

“Most people do though,” Sansa points out. Margaery nods. 

“Also, you could have just ignored Dad,” Rickon points out.

“You are literally the only one who gets away with that,” Sansa tells him. 

“We’re all adults, what is he going to do, ground us?” Rickon scoffs. 

Arya is still glowering at all of them. “Just because you all want me to turn into Sansa doesn’t mean I’m going to just because I found a boy who isn’t awful.”

“A ringing endorsement,” Asha says dryly. Although from Arya, it kind of is. 

Sansa sees Gendry’s expression droop a little more. 

“Seriously Arya, stop being mean to your boyfriend,” Sansa says. “At least I have better sense than that.” 

Arya starts to say something, but she stops and looks over at Gendry and her mouth snaps shut. 

“Nobody expects you to be Sansa,” Jon says patiently. “But we do want you to be happy.” 

“I’m happier with all of you keeping your noses out of my business,” Arya says. 

“Never gonna happen,” Rickon says. 

“We’re family,” Robb adds.

Talisa goes to pat Gendry on the arm again, and Arya glares and scoots closer to him. Talisa looks like she’s hiding a smirk, and Sansa really does like her. If only she’d realize that Robb is an idiot, but a well-meaning one. 

Gendry drapes his arm over Arya’s shoulder, then leans over and gives her a noogie, laughing when she kicks at his shin and tries to wrestle away.

It’s hardly romantic, but somehow the scuffle ends with Gendry kissing Arya on the top of her head with surprising gentleness, considering they’d just been wrestling. Sansa’s little sister’s cheeks turn pink and she ducks her head toward Gendry’s side. 

It’s a sight Sansa never thought she’d see, really, Arya looking bashful and smitten.

“Well, every relationship is unique,” Margaery comments. She squeezes Sansa’s hand and snuggles closer.

Sansa truly can’t imagine rough housing like that with her girlfriend, but then she’s not Arya.

“Maybe getting laid would help relax her,” Ygritte suggests. Arya looks like she’s going to lunge forward, but Gendry wraps his arm around her more firmly and keeps her anchored to the sofa.

“It is stress-relieving,” Sansa agrees. 

“Ugh,” Arya says. “Please stop making me think about either of your sex lives.”

“But it’s so good!” Ygritte says cheerfully. Jon looks smug. 

“And we’re very happy for you,” Bran tells her, voice as dry as a desert. “It’d help you too,” Ygritte informs him. 

“You’re a brave man,” Robb says to Gendry. “Arya might just murder you if you step out of line.”

Gendry grins in a way that suggests he finds Arya’s vaguely homicidal tendencies charming. 

“She’s not like most girls, our Arya,” Jon agrees proudly. Talisa’s eyes narrow.

“What do you mean by that?” Talisa demands. 

“Is there something wrong with most girls?” Ygritte adds, giving Jon a hard look. 

Jon seems confused by the sudden attention. “No! I mean I just — she’s not —”

“Are you suggesting liking girly things is bad?” Margaery asks, too sweetly to be sincere.

“No!” Jon looks panicked. “I just … you know …”

He looks around the room for help.

“I’m going to be a doctor,” Talisa says tartly. “Is that like most girls or not?” 

“And I can split wood and hit a bulls-eye with an axe,” Ygritte adds. “And blow your mind in bed, how’s that for most girls?”

“I don’t mean most girls are _bad_ ,” Jon says. “Just… Arya…”

Sansa can’t help feeling a little emotional at Talisa and Ygritte’s comments. She knows her family loves her, and she and Robb have always been close, but it’s clear Jon and her younger brothers always preferred Arya. She thinks Robb did too, sometimes, because none of them understand why Sansa likes the things she does. 

“I like Arya because she’s Arya,” Gendry says. “I wouldn’t want her to be anything else.”

Arya looks like she wants to hide a little bit, but she’s also got a soft smile on her face. Sansa doubts she’s aware of her own expression. 

Jon looks relieved to be out of the spotlight. 

“Well, good,” Sansa declares. “She shouldn’t settle for anything less.”

That, at least, everyone can agree on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Blueberry Buckle.](https://www.spendwithpennies.com/blueberry-buckle/)
> 
> Thanks to ElizaDunc for being a stand out beta!
> 
> Oh, poor Arya. And yes this IS a dig at the show and a good portion of fandom that adored Arya for being a tomboy and hated Sansa for not being one. 
> 
> Arya isn't trying to be mean, but she's caught up in being pitted against Sansa, and well. Yeah. 
> 
> Happy whatever the fuck day it is today, why does 2020 just keep going? Can't we get a national/global vacation declared until January and just be done with it?


	99. Kinda Like It In My Brand New Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and Talisa try using their words, or something.

The house isn’t completely ready when Talisa’s lease ends, because of course it isn’t. But at least the downstairs floors have been sanded and re-finished and all the downstairs rooms primed. The kitchen cabinets are painted white and the doors re-attached with the original iron hardware, and the shelves have been stocked with Robb’s paltry supply of dishes and cookware.

He probably needs more dishes and cookware, now that he thinks about it.

Robb is also making slow but steady progress in peeling paint off the original wood trim and features, like the fireplace mantle and surrounds and the built-in cabinet in the dining room.

The problem is upstairs, where Talisa is set to live. Of course.

The first disappointment had come when they’d ripped up the carpet and found a plywood sub-floor. The second, when Asha and Arya yanked the wood paneling off and revealed some really lumpy and sad-looking drywall.

Benjen and Val declared it hopeless, and after several hours of a gleeful Arya wielding a sledgehammer, the upstairs bedrooms were basically demolished. The bathroom and kitchenette escaped, so Robb doesn’t have to deal with that mess at least.

Val and Benjen got the drywall hung, so that was great, but then there was the Great Floor Debate, as Robb is going to think of it from now on.

His plan was just to get click and lock flooring and put it in. He’s watched YouTube videos, it looks simple, and more importantly quick.

Benjen, Val, and his parents had all been horrified by the idea, pointing out that the rest of the house was lovely and so well-crafted, he shouldn’t have the upstairs be sub-standard. Robb had pointed out that it already is, and then there had been a long argument over flooring types, followed by one about engineered versus solid wood, followed by one about wood varieties.

In the end, Benjen had shown up with a truck full of planks and a terrifying-looking nail gun and now the upstairs has solid oak floors made from local wood. The problem is, it still has to be stained and that’s several days worth of work. 

Work Robb has been banned from doing after his father and Benjen had seen his technique when he attempted to stain the downstairs rooms.

So his family has carted Talisa’s things over and temporarily stored them in the family room. Talisa still looks a little shell-shocked by how quickly a horde of Starks (and Stark-adjacent folks) had managed to empty her apartment, move her things, and finish cleaning so she wouldn’t lose her security deposit. 

“It’s Baelish,” Talisa had commented. “It won’t matter.”

Cat had protested that of course Baelish would be fair, but she was the only one.

“Uncle Benjen says he’ll finish the floor this week,” Robb offers. He pokes at the strip of paint he’s trying to get off the mantle, to try to distract himself from the awkwardness.

And it is awkward, both of them hovering in the living room with little to say. Talisa’s furniture isn’t really usable, stacked among boxes (intentionally, Robb is sure), aside from her bed. Robb’s furniture, which had filled his condo nicely, isn’t really enough for the house. The couch and chair look lonely in the living room, his TV stand sad and out-of-place with the old-fashioned house. His desk has been moved into one of the spare bedrooms, the one Robb plans on turning into a library/office, and his table and chairs look small and pathetic in the big dining room.

Robb thinks he’ll probably move them into the kitchen, there’s enough space for it now that he’s removed the very much not-original island. And the room should shape up nicely, though it will take time. The wood floor looks much better than the linoleum someone had put on top of it, and there’s a brick wall that will look great once Robb has had time to strip the brown paint off. It’s the only brown wall left in the house, though, so that’s something.

“I’m trying to decide what color to paint the living room,” Robb says.

“Up to you,” Talisa tells him.

“I was thinking yellow.” Robb forges ahead, trying to ignore her lack of enthusiasm. “And you’ll be living here for at least a while, so you should get a say.” 

“Would you ask a regular roommate?” Talisa says. She seems to want to ignore the fact that no matter what happens between them, or doesnt, they aren’t regular roommates.

“Of course.” 

Talisa looks taken aback by the answer.

“Yellow could be nice,” she says slowly.

“The dining room will be red,” Robb says. “Dining rooms should be red. But I don’t know about the kitchen. There’s a brick wall I want to uncover so it has to go with that.”

“Blue or green?” Talisa offers. “Orange?”

“And we have to decide on the nursery,” Robb says. “Mom is really itching to buy things and if you’re having a shower soon, other people will want to too.”

“I don’t even know who I’d invite to a shower,” Talisa groans. “Your mom asked me for a list.” 

“Your friends?” 

“All I do is work and study,” Talisa says. “Since I moved here, that’s it.” 

“Don’t you go out with my sister’s girl gang?” That’s how Robb has taken to referring to Sansa’s group of strangely eclectic and unexpected friends. 

He likes them better than some of the girls Sansa hung out with in high school, at least. 

“She just invites me because of you,” Talisa says. 

“Sansa wouldn’t do that if she didn’t like you,” Robb says. “She never hung out with Roslin.”

He regrets saying it when the name hangs heavy in the air between them. 

“Your mother isn’t going to make us play stupid games, is she?” Talisa finally asks. 

“I don’t know?” Robb has never been to a baby shower, and he doubts he’ll be allowed at this one, given his mother’s ideas about gender roles. 

“Please tell her no games,” Talisa says. “They’re always so stupid and humiliating.” 

Robb wonders what, exactly, women are doing at these parties, but maybe he doesn’t want to know. 

“I’ll tell her,” he promises. “We should think about the nursery, though.”

“Green,” Talisa says again, more firmly this time. “Not pastel, though.”

“We need a theme.” Robb thinks about it. “Dinosaurs?”

Talisa’s nose wrinkles, in a way that Robb finds entirely too adorable. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Animals?” Robb tries again. 

“Maybe,” Talisa says. “But not cartoon-y lions and stuff.”

“Forest animals.” Robb peels another strip of paint off the mantle. “Like deer, raccoons, little foxes and bunnies.” 

“That could work.” Talisa runs a hand over her stomach. She’s been doing that more and more, Robb notices. “Just not too cutesy.”

“Not cutesy,” Robb says. “Got it.”

Talisa nods. “Then it’s a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK MORE FIC. Trying to keep up with this while getting sidetracked with a time travel AU I shouldn't have started. Why do I do these things to myself?
> 
> Benjen and Val probably have a point, but I personally am going with the engineered flooring when I re-do my upstairs and take out the carpet of cat pee, because yeah.
> 
> Dining rooms are red. It is known. 
> 
> But, hey, Robb and Talisa are talking. And Talisa is trying! So there's that. Happy Friday, everyone.


	100. Girls Stop By For the Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the summer solstice and small town Westeros is ready to celebrate.

“My hands will never stop smelling like fish,” Sansa announces, putting down another box of treats. 

Brienne is unimpressed.

“It was your idea,” she points out.

Sansa wrinkles her nose. “I know, but still.”

The two of them, along with Asha and a rotating number of volunteers, have spent several weeks putting bonito flakes into individual baggies to hand out at the summer solstice festival. They really do need to talk to the town council about sustainability, because Brienne is starting to despair at how much plastic and waste is involved.

In the meantime, there’s fish flakes. It’s clear by now that every business should expect several hundred people to come by during the course of the festival. There’s a rumor that the mayor is hoping to hit a thousand visitors in one festival before the end of the year. Brienne despairs at the thought.

Everyone has spent weeks preparing. The Starks had taken over the kitchen at Evenfall’s during off hours for the past couple of days, making something to hand out. 

Nobody seems to want to cut back, though, and Brienne has to admit the festivals do make the town come alive. There’s a certain energy that seems to crackle through the town, and there are continued rumors of people looking to buy some of the empty storefronts left on main street. Adoptions pick up at the shelter, too, since they usually bring a display of harder-to-adopt animals and set them up in the vet’s office for people to meet. 

And now there’s construction started at the old Martell Inn. Maege Mormont and her daughters have been hard at work, along with whoever they can hire on as crew.

“I just wish I could figure out something that would get us the trophy,” Sansa muses. Brienne tries not to roll her eyes. 

“It’s still unfair that the library is eligible,” Asha says darkly. There’s been a spirited discussion over whether or not town organizations should be eligible for a prize given by the town council.

It had mostly been resolved when someone pointed out that all the members of the council, aside from Jon Arryn, were business owners and by that logic their own businesses should be out of the running too.

Sansa has to run to Cregan’s to help out there, but Brienne and Asha are quickly able to finish setting up. Brienne’s been trying to have a good balance of giveaways for cats and dogs, but it’s hard to find things cats will like. 

Bonito flakes seem like a sure winner, though, for even the pickiest of cats. Brienne reaches through the bars of the nearest carrier and scratches a cat on the chin. The cats they’ve brought in to showcase today are all adults, and some have been at the shelter a while. Brienne hopes some of them will find a good home. 

“Oh, they’re sweet.” Obara Sand pokes her head in, looking around. “I’ve been thinking of getting a cat.” 

“You should take a look,” Brienne offers, trying not to shrink away from the beautiful woman. She can’t help feeling intimidated by the Sands, who seem to be Brienne’s opposite in every way. “Your sister has a Siamese, right?”

Obara looks impressed that Brienne remembers, even though Tyene Sand is one of her and Asha’s clients. 

“I’ve got to get back,” Obara says regretfully. “Just wanted to say hi and drop these off.”

She hands Asha and Brienne cups of punch. It’s pink and fizzy with berries floating in it. 

Brienne sips it, and is surprised to see it tastes very much like wine. Obara’s gone before she can comment, and regardless it’s just about time for the festival to start. Brienne takes a look outside and sees Ros setting up several large containers of sunflowers and a crowd of people milling around already, including Dany and the gym owner. 

Dany is delighted to run into Drogo as she leaves Daario in charge and goes to take stock of the festival. 

“How’s the dog doing?” Rickon’s obedience class ran for about eight weeks, and Dany hasn’t really seen Drogo much since, aside from the disastrous pilates outing.

“He’s a lazy fucker,” Drogo says. “But a well-trained one.” 

Dany laughs. “At least you have that.”

“I do,” Drogo agrees. He gives the tray of peaches at Cassel’s a doubtful look, but takes one anyway. Dany has already devoured half of hers, the grilled fruit and sweet creamy topping amazingly good.

Drogo uses the plastic fork provided to carefully scrape the cream off of his. 

“I eat clean,” he explains to Dany. “As much as possible. Dairy, sugar, grains, that stuff’s bad for you.”

“But it tastes so good,” Dany says. Certainly, the results of Drogo’s diet and workout routine are impressive, but a life deprived of good food sounds miserable. 

Drogo shrugs. “You get used to it.”

Dany doesn’t think she’d want to, personally. “I’ll be happy to take your share then,” she offers, with a little wink.

Drogo laughs. 

Dany can see Shireen and Missy down the block, with plates holding gooey cake. Drogo’s handsome, but maybe she should go find her friends.

“No Rickon?” Missy asks, after she finishes her cake and they cross the street. 

“Nope,” Shireen shifts the small plant start she got from Lonely Hills to the other arm so she can pick up Val’s shrimp-topped toast. “He has to work.” 

“That’s sad.” Missandei eyes the toasts a little bit skeptically but takes one anyway.

“Plus his parents are starting to get on his case about meeting me, so he wants to avoid them seeing us together,” Shireen says. 

“If he’s ashamed of you,” Missy starts, around a mouthful of grilled sausage sandwich. She grabs a second white the waitress at Fat Walda’s back is turned.

“He’s not.” Shireen takes a cup of Varys’s pasta salad. It’s not bad. “But he says he wants to save it for a special occasion.”

Missy raises her eyebrows and Shireen shrugs 

“I think his family forgets he’s not still who he was in high school,” Shireen says. “But it’s not a big deal.”

Missy seems to think otherwise, but before she can comment further they have ducked into Tyene’s to grab some samples.

“It’s edible, scented and shimmery,” Tyene explains. She takes a feather and dusts a little powder over both of them. Shireen giggles as it brushes over her collarbones, and Missy’s shoulders gleam when Tyene is done.

Grey seems to appreciate it when they meet up with him at the bookstore. He’s chatting quietly with Jaime while both of them munch on meat and cheese from Tyrion’s charcuterie tray.

“No more crafts,” Tyrion says grumpily. Shireen doubts that will hold, given he’s married to Tysha. 

Jaime thanks all three of them earnestly as he hands over the kids. Tommen and Grey start having a conversation about art and Myrcella shyly compliments Missy’s dress.

“It’s no problem,” Shireen assures him. “Brienne deserves it.” 

The goofy grin on Jaime’s face is proof they’re doing the right thing as he ducks out to pick up their friend.

Brienne feels unaccountably nervous when Jaime picks her up from the vets. They’ve had coffee and hung out but this time, with Shireen and Missy watching the kids, it feels like a real date and Brienne isn’t entirely sure she’s ready for it. 

She barely has the stomach to nibble on one of Gilly’s fried honeycakes and she nearly loses it after she has one of Drogo’s wellness shots. Although Jaime looks a little green after that as well, so perhaps it’s the overwhelming turmeric flavor responsible for her stomach’s rolling rather than nerves. 

Small talk about Brenna takes them a ways — she’s doing well, though Jaime insists Brienne must have some sort of super power to medicate cats easily, no matter how much she tells him it’s just practice. That takes them a while, but Brienne feels at a loss for things to say, until they pick up little cups of jambalaya from Martell’s.

“I do wish we’d do something about all this plastic,” she mutters. She gestures at the overflowing trash cans. “Look at all this waste.”

Jaime, who is still picking up grilled peppers from Syrio, considers it. 

“I mean,” Brienne continues, as they grab stuffed cherry tomatoes at the Pharmacy, “It’s just ridiculous. None of it’s getting recycled, and really.”

“But what’s the alternative?” Jaime shrugs, and Brienne glares.

“People could bring reusable plates and cups,” she says. 

“Like we need more to carry,” Jaime grumbles. “It’s bad enough with the craft project the kids collect.”

“It’s better than killing the Earth!”

Whatever Jaime was going to say to that is interrupted by Sansa and Margaery throwing themselves at Brienne for a hug and blatantly staring at both of them. Brienne sighs, especially when she sees Arya and Gendry tagging along behind. Sansa’s been making noises about double or triple dates, and Brienne should have known this would happen.

Not that she’s on a date with Jaime. She isn’t. Unless she is. Brienne isn’t quite sure. Sansa and Margaery certainly think she is, judging by the happy exclamations about group outings and couples.

Jaime doesn’t deny it, at any rate.

Arya, at least, seems more distracted by the taco she’s trying to eat without spilling it all over the sidewalk. 

“I’m so glad the staff took this festival over from grandfather,” Arya says around a mouthful of food. “This is so good.”

“Better than punch,” Sansa agrees, although she’s happily sipping lemonade from City Hall while popping prosecco grapes from Sand Snakes. 

Gendry seems unphased by Arya’s lack of affection. While Margaery and Sansa immediately wrap themselves around each other once they’ve greeted Brienne and Jaime with hugs, Arya is busy stuffing her face with tacos and jumping up on the edge of the fountain and performing some sort of acrobatic routine. Gendry just grins at her, looking delighted by the display, even though Arya’s hair is flying everywhere and she has a smear of salsa on her cheek.

Gendry doesn’t seem to mind either, when Arya coaxes Jaime up onto the fountain ledge and begins attacking him with some sort of martial arts move that Jaime returns in kind. Sansa sighs and covers her eyes with her hand while Margaery laughs and cheers. Brienne tries to see what they’re doing — she’s boxed before, but this kind of elegant fighting is beyond her, and it’s impressive. Even if it ends with Arya knocking Jaime backward into the fountain. 

Jaime pouts until Brienne helps him out, trying very hard not to notice the way his shirt has gone see-through and clings to the muscles of his chest.

“A feast for the victor,” Gendry announces, solemnly presenting Arya with a steak frite bite from Tarly’s. She tears into it with relish, while Sansa and Margaery sip cups of gin punch from the bank and Genna Lannister tuts over Jaime’s appearance.

Brienne feels her cheeks turn red as she tries to keep her gaze firmly above Jaime’s chest. She doesn’t think she’s succeeds, given the way Sansa and Margaery giggle at her and the way Jaime puffs up and preens like a peacock.

That discombobulates her more, since she still half expects him to recoil in disgust if she looks at him with anything even approaching desire. She doesn’t expect him to look at her with a look even she can’t interpret as anything but delighted, even more sparkling and golden with drips of water still clinging to his hair and his face.

As worried as Brienne is about a relationship, she can’t deny Jamie is a beautiful man. Distractingly beautiful, so much so she trips over a lampost.

“Hodor!” the bagger from Tyrell’s cries out in alarm, seeing her trip and rushing over to see if she’s all right as Jaime catches her. It brings her far too close to Jaime’s person, but she tries her best to smile reassuringly at him.

“Hodor,” he says again, shaking his head and handing them all chicken salad sandwiches. He’s a kind man, and Brienne feels sympathy for his limited ability to communicate.

“Thank you,” she tells him seriously and Hodor smiles at her, gently patting the top of her head — he’s one of the few people taller than Brienne — before wandering back to his station. 

“Don’t worry, Hodor won’t steal your girl,” Margaery reassures Jaime, who is indeed glaring darkly at the man. 

“He’s dating Osha anyway,” Ellaria informs them, as they pause and browse the overflowing trays of olives, pita bread, dips, fresh cucumber, soft cheese, and small patties of spiced meat. 

Everyone tilts their head a little at that but Ellaria doesn’t seem alarmed so Brienne supposes there’s nothing untoward. And for all Hodor’s limitations, he certainly seems intelligent enough, just unable to express it, as far as Brienne can tell. 

“I wonder if he — ” Margaery starts to say, but Arya reaches up and shoves a piece of pita bread in her mouth before she can finish.

“No,” Arya says. “I don’t want to think about it.” 

“You have a dirty mind,” Margaery says, after she chews and swallows. “You don't know what I was going to say.”

“I’ve met you,” Arya says.

Margaery continues to pout while they get cups of mead from Wildling’s and scoops of melon sorbet from Frozen North, Bran smirking at all of them as he dispenses miniature cones full of the sweet dessert. 

They’re trying cups of nectarine salad from the Citadel when Tommen comes barreling out of the library, his sister and more of their friends following behind. 

“I made a sun!” Tommen declares proudly, throwing his arms around Jaime. He holds up the paper plate project, slightly worse for the wear after the hug. Tommen insists on showing Jaime and, to her surprise, Brienne all of his craft projects as well as the ones everyone else made. Brienne tries to escape but Sansa shoves her back towards Jaime and she’s stuck trying to figure out the appropriate response.

Tommen solemnly explains all the work they did on the suns, the sun catchers made of tissue paper, the little pillows full of herbs meant to bring good dreams, a kite that is decorated with crudely drawn cats, and another sun made of yarn. He insists everyone else share too. Myrcella’s craft projects look like they’ve been put together with a range of enthusiasm, Missy’s, which hardly look better than Tommen’s, to Shireen’s careful and somehow elegant work and Grey’s work which looks like it belongs in a museum. Even the paper plate sun, which includes carefully inked, mandala-like designs spiralling out from the center. 

“You need to bring a backpack next time, buddy,” Missy tells Tommen, taking the projects Tommen tries to shove at an overwhelmed looking Jaime and putting them in her own large tote bag-like purse. 

Brienne sees Myrcella discretely toss a couple of her projects in a nearby trash can, though she does place a couple in her own, smaller tote. 

Tommen leads them to Frey’s insurance for chips and pineapple salsa, and Reed’s for sumac fritters. He even insists on stopping at the Iron Crown while Stannis glares at everyone except Shireen and Tommen, who proudly shows off his latest loose tooth and listens intently while the dentist solemnly explains that it’s even more important for Tommen to take care of his permanent teeth than he did his baby teeth. He then hands all of them tongue scrapers and tells Shireen she should reapply sunscreen.

Shireen rolls her eyes as soon as her back is turned and is still grumbling when they duck into Marbrand’s for melon skewers. 

Addam’s eyes widen when he sees all of them, and Brienne can’t help tensing a little, wondering if she was wrong and this _is_ a joke after all.

“You went for this guy instead?” Addam shakes his head, jerking a finger at Jaime. “I’m crushed.”

Brienne doesn't know what to say, even though Addam is laughing. It’s especially hard because Dacey Moront is perched on the reception desk, carefully stripping skewers of food and setting aside the melon while eating the prosciutto and cheese. 

Dacey laughs too, though. “Your ego can stand it,” she tells Addam. 

He smirks at her, then frowns at the pile of melon. “You’re supposed to eat the whole thing you know.”

“Melon is a terminal disappointment,” Dacey replies. She cocks her head at Brienne and Jaime. “I bet he’d give her a real challenge in a fight, though. Unlike you.”

Addam squawks a protest, but then he and Dacey just stare at Brienne and Jaime for a few minutes, while Brienne tries desperately to figure out how she’s meant to respond to a statement like that. Arya jumps in to tell about her fight with Jaime, while Jaime loudly protests that it wasn’t a real spar, he wasn’t really trying, though, so she’s saved.

“You still need to call about firefighting,” Dacey calls out after Brienne as they leave. “And I’m trying to start a roller derby team!”

Jaime wonders if it’s possible to stay as red as Brienne is and not spontaneously combust. He should have known better than to go anywhere near his so-called friends. And they shouldn’t be staring at the cat wench with such obvious interest when they are clearly taken. And hopefully Brienne is too, although Jaime hasn’t quite figured out how to bring up the dating topic again. They have been spending time together, but it’s all been very low-key and carefully not defined. And all too often with the kids in tow. Myrcella keeps threatening to tell Brienne that Jaime likes her, and Jaime doesn’t know how to explain to his niece that it isn’t that simple. 

For all Jaime’s worries, though, it turns out Myrcella isn’t the child he should worry about.

“Why aren’t you holding hands?” Tommen pipes up. They’re in front of Cregan’s, where one of the old lady clerks is handing out little pastries with lemon curd. 

“I, uh —” Jaime looks around for help, but none is forthcoming. Arya just starts laughing and Gendry looks like he’d rather be anywhere but in the middle of this conversation. 

“Miss Sansa and Miss Margaery are holding hands,” Tommen continues, crumbs falling on the front of his shirt. “And Miss Naath and Mr. Nudho are holding hands. And Miss Arya and Mr. Gendry were too, when they thought nobody was looking.”

“I mean, we know you’re dating,” Myrcella adds. 

“I’m sorry you don’t have someone to hold hands with, Miss Baratheon,” Tommen says, looking genuinely sad.

“I do, he’s just not here,” Shireen tells him. “But you can hold my hand instead, if you want.”

If Brienne turns any redder, Jaime is worried they’ll need to take her to the Citadel to make sure she’s not actually sick. 

“Yeah, why aren’t you holding hands?” Sansa puts in, looking delighted by the turn of events. 

“Unless you don’t really like Uncle Jaime?” Myrcella looks concerned now. “He really likes you.”

The old lady at the Cregan’s table looks like she’s about to die from trying not to laugh. Jaime wonders if it’s possible for the sidewalk to open up and swallow him.

“Miss Brienne and I are still getting to know each other,” he tells his niece gently. “It’s okay if she doesn’t like me, or if she doesn't know yet.”

Myrcella keeps staring at Brienne, though, and Jaime sighs. 

“It really is okay,” he tells Brienne, trying to be quiet enough to avoid being heard by the crowd of eavesdroppers. He’s certainly failing, but hopefully he’ll get points for effort. 

“I’m not — I — it isn’t —” Brienne sighs and looks at her feet. “I’m not very good at this.”

“Clearly, neither am I.” Jaime gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m getting scolded by literal children.” 

“Still, you’re …” Brienne trails off, waving a hand in Jaime’s direction. She’s still not looking right at him. 

“Why Brienne, are you saying I’m pretty?” Jaime will blame the gin and mead for saying that out loud, when he’s been trying so hard not to scare her off. He’d tell her he thinks she’s pretty too, but he’s heard Brienne brush off anything approaching a compliment so often he knows it won’t work. 

Brienne glares at him then. Her eyes look exceptionally blue when she’s angry, Jaime notices, and when she’s blushing. 

He holds out a hand. “We could at least try?” Jaime offers. He tries _not_ to feel like he’s Myrcella’s age when Brienne slowly grips her hand in hers and his stomach flutters. He’s a grown man who’s done a lot more than holding hands with women, it shouldn’t make him feel like he’s won some sort of victory. 

The feeling dissipates when they go into Evenfalls for pepper poppers. Aside from the certainty that his digestive system will regret the spicy food later, Jaime has forgotten that Brienne’s father owns the pizza joint.

He’s also forgotten how tall the man is, though it becomes obvious when Selwyn’s eyes look from their joined hands, to Brienne’s face, and then to Jaime’s with raised eyebrows. 

“Don’t start,” Brienne warns her father. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Selwyn says. 

“We love your pizza,” Myrcella tells Selwyn. “We eat it almost every day.”

Jaime feels himself turn red at that. Selwyn frowns a little. “Not much of a cook then?”

“It’s not my strong suit.” Jaime swallows the urge to call him sir. 

“Uncle Tyrion says Uncle Jaime burned water once,” Myrcella pipes in helpfully. Jaime reminds himself that he can’t ground her for being honest. 

Brienne is looking sideways at him. Jaime sighs. “Look, we all have our strengths.”

“Uncle Jaime’s is getting take-out,” Myrcella says. “Can you cook Brienne?”

Selwyn lets out a laugh and Jaime groans out loud. “Um,” Brienne says, looking mildly terrified. “Not like my Dad.”

Selwyn keeps eyeing Jaime and Brienne’s joined hands. Her grip has gone a little slack, but Jaime isn’t letting go. Not even in the face of the (probably) friendly giant that is her father.

“Tell you what,” Selwyn says. “All of you should come over some night, and I’ll make you a real home-cooked meal.”

Brienne looks shell-shocked when they leave, enough that Jaime can’t blame her for quietly detaching from him as they approach the end of the block and mumbling something about having to leave. 

“She’ll be fine,” Sansa assures him, before following her friend. “We’ll make sure she doesn’t get too far into her own head.” 

Considering Shireen and Missandei are herding Brienne towards Littlefinger’s, Jaime can’t help feeling a little apprehensive about the whole thing.

Poor Brienne looks bewildered as Shireen hands her a shot.

“Drink,” Shireen commands. When Brienne does and then opens her mouth, Shireen shakes her head. “Another.”

Four shots later — the first two are pink and the last one is flaming — Shireen finally nods. Missy, who has been matching them drink for drink, motions Bronn for another flaming shot. 

“What just happened?” Brienne finally asked. Her shoulders have lost some of their tension but she still looks baffled.

“You are dating a himbo,” Sansa says. Brienne does not look like that clears anything up.

“I’m sure he’s very smart,” Shireen says. “But he seems very ….”

“Spoiled?” Arya offers. “Privileged,” Shireen says. 

Missy pats Brienne on the hand. “I’m sure your father will like him.”

“That’s the problem,” Brienne shakes her head. “My Dad will try to orchestrate everything with us.”

Privately, Shireen thinks Brienne and Jaime could do with someone orchestrating their relationship since neither of them seem truly capable of doing so themselves. It’s very sweet, in a way, and also a little sad. 

“It could be worse.” Dany pops up — Shireen saw her at Evenfalls but she hadn’t noticed the woman following them. “Drogo doesn’t eat _carbs_.”

“Who doesn’t eat carbs?” Gendry asks, with the expression of a man who’s never once considered a diet in his entire life.

“Exactly.” Dany says, motioning Bronn for another flaming shot. 

“Does this mean we aren’t going back to pilates?” Shireen asks hopefully.

Dany sighs. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and I like girls who wear abercrombie and fitch
> 
> Okay, got that out of my system. 
> 
> A [listing of the festival food, crafts, and so on](https://dancinginthecenteroftheworld.tumblr.com/post/635677830876971008/midsummer-festival-for-the-small-town-au)! On my Tumblr due to space constraints.
> 
> Arya has NO shame and also does not feel bad about dumping Jaime in the fountain.
> 
> I feel like Hodor needs some happiness, too! He works as a bagger at Tyrell's, so his limited vocabulary isn't an issue.
> 
> Dacey is lovely but wrong about melon. Cantaloupe is a gift. 
> 
> ALso, life without carbs is not life worth living, IMO. 
> 
> Happy uh, end of November god why won't this year end already!?


	101. All I Really Want Is Some Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cat throws Talisa a baby shower.

Talisa reminds herself, not for the first time, that it’s very kind of Robb’s mother to throw her a baby shower. She knows Catelyn isn’t happy about the way she and Robb are handling things and Talisa knows an olive branch when she sees one.

That doesn’t mean Talisa wants to go to the party and spend time smiling and talking about babies with a bunch of women she doesn’t know. 

Sansa’s warned her the party will be huge, though Sansa has made sure to invite some women Talisa will actually know. Although she’s under strict instructions not to mention that Shireen is dating Rickon, because apparently Rickon is saving that bit of information for a special occasion. 

It isn’t that Talisa doesn’t want her baby, it’s just that she can’t help feeling like this interruption to her plans is a failure. She’s supposed to be heading off to the Citadel in a few months with nothing to worry about but her studies. Instead she’ll be commuting to her classes from Westeros, she’s living with a man she doesn’t truly know and she’ll have a child relying on her. 

Still. Talisa braces herself and makes her way up the walkway to the Stark home. Catelyn’s holding the party in their gardens, and it’s a lovely day. Although Talisa wishes it weren’t quite so warm, given how far along she is. She’ll try her best, just like she has while picking out paint for the nursery and dutifully scanning her way through a registry at Cregan’s with Robb. 

To make matters worse, Talisa is stuck doing this alone, because Catelyn believes firmly in gender segregated baby showers. Apparently Robb is doing something with his father and some of the other men, but it sounded a lot more low-key when he talked about it. It certainly didn’t involve embossed invitations.

Sansa was not kidding about the size — there seem to be close to a hundred women gathered in the Stark garden, clustered around a charmingly mis-matched collection of tables and chairs. The tables are laden with teapots, china teacups, and tiered platters filled with crustless sandwiches and small pastries. There are vases full of flowers, tied off with pastel ribbons and clusters of pastel balloons floating gently in the breeze.

Catelyn welcomes her warmly, though Talisa can’t help feeling a bit like a show-pony as she’s introduced to a lot of older women she’s never met as the mother of Catelyn’s first grandbaby. 

Sansa and Arya are there at least, and Shireen, who gives Talisa a little wink when she passes by, along with Dany, Missy, Val, Ygritte, and even Brienne. Brienne looks terribly awkward, like she’s trying to become one with the tree trunk. Margaery is there with her mother and grandmother, who looks Talisa up and down with a shrewd expression, and all the Mormont women, who look out of place in khakis and sleeveless tops amidst a sea of pastel summer dresses. Meera Reed is there too, looking like she wants to escape.

“Who are these people?” Talisa finally asks Sansa, once she’s escaped Catelyn’s clutches. Catelyn seems to have agreed to her demand for no games, but there are still little activity stations set up around the yard. Talisa’s cornered Sansa by the table where people are using fabric paint and markers to decorate onesies of varying sizes. 

“Mom’s friends, mostly,” Sansa says. She considers the markers and picks up a new color. “And the women from the store.”

“Does your mother know everyone in town?” Talisa eyes the crowd. 

“Kinda.” Sansa grins then holds up her finished project. Talisa tries not to tear up when she sees Sansa has carefully drawn a stethoscope and written “My Mommy Is A Doctor” on the front of the onesie. Sansa clips it on the clothesline meant to display finished onesies. 

“These people don’t know me!” Talisa feels panic rising, especially when she sees the pile of gifts on another table. “And now they’re here and they’ve brought gifts and …”

“They know Mom, though.” Sansa shrugs. “They’re happy for her, and honestly, half of them just like buying baby stuff anyway.”

It still makes Talisa feel uneasy, especially when women she doesn’t know keep coming over and giving her parenting advice, some of which she knows is highly outdated, and patting her on the stomach.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Talisa says vaguely, to an older woman who is telling her that whiskey on the gums helps with teething pain and has never harmed any of her children!

She drifts past the table of people scribbling in a book of some sort, and another where Shireen and Dany are writing something on cards. Catelyn has embraced the woodland animals theme Talisa and Robb agreed on (though Talisa isn’t sure why babies and showers require themes) and there are little decorations with foxes and wolves and bears and squirrels scattered about.

She manages to escape briefly, finding Meera and Brienne huddled under an oak tree talking about dogs. 

“Oh thank god,” Talisa says. She can’t sit on the ground with them, not if she wants to get up again, but she can lean on the tree trunk. “Please do not give me any parenting advice.”

“I don’t know any parenting advice,” Brienne says. Meera nods in agreement.

“Then you two are my favorite people here,” Talisa declares. 

“Catelyn went a bit overboard?” Meera guesses. She reaches up and absently pats Talisa on the shin. “She does that.”

“It’s very …” Brienne is clearly struggling for words. “Pastel.”

Meera snorts. “There’s a reason Asha wouldn’t come.”

“She said she was going with the guys and Robb. They were getting burgers at Fat Walda’s,” Brienne says wistfully. “And cheese fries.”

Cheese fries sound amazing, and much more filling than the tiny sandwiches Talisa has been nibbling on. 

“If I have a baby shower ever, there better be pizza,” Meera declares. “And burgers. Or I won’t show up.”

“Noted,” Talisa tells her. She sighs. “It’s a lot.”

“Are you nervous?” Brienne asks, which is honestly the first time anyone has asked Talisa that. She’s so tired of being asked if she’s excited or which gender she wants or why they didn’t find out the baby’s gender, she could cry.

“Sort of.” Talisa rubs a hand absently over her stomach, a gesture she’s caught herself doing more, even though she swore she wouldn’t. “I don’t know how I’m going to handle it all, with school.”

“I can’t imagine,” Brienne says and Talisa is reminded that she’s heard vet school is even tougher than medical school. 

“At least you have Robb,” Meera says. “And all the Starks to help.”

Sometimes the prospect of Robb’s family helping is more terrifying than reassuring, but Talisa appreciates the sentiment. 

“I don’t know much about human medicine,” Brienne says. “But I was great at biochem, if you ever need help.”

“Where were you during my MCAT studying?” Talisa jokes. 

Sadly, her reprieve doesn’t last, because Arya comes stomping through the trees and tells Talisa that Catelyn is looking for her. Talisa thinks her cheeks are going to fall off from smiling so much at strangers, when she finds Margaery and her grandmother at one of the tables. Margaery is sketching something on shiny paper before folding it into a star — apparently the guests are supposed to write well-wishes for the baby, which will be strung together to hang on the wall. 

“I do not do activities,” Olenna sniffs, when Margaery asks if she’d like to do her own. Talisa likes the woman immediately.

“So.” Olenna turns on Talisa with another assessing look. “Catelyn tells me you’re hoping to go to medical school.”

“I am going to medical school, starting in September,” Talisa tells her. “At the Citadel.” 

“Hard work,” Olenna comments. “Especially with an infant.”

“Luckily, children have two parents.” Talisa is getting used to conversations about her plans, but that doesn’t mean she likes the assumption that she’ll be doing most of the work.

To her surprise, Olenna laughs. “Good for you. Don’t let men try to hold you back because they’re threatened.” 

Maege Mormont stops by to join in, and Talisa has a surprisingly enjoyable conversation with both women about tackling discrimination and balancing work and motherhood. She especially appreciates Maege’s comments about figuring out what really matters and letting go of the rest.

“You can’t do it all,” Maege says frankly. “But as long as they’re fed, they’re healthy, they’re clothed, and they’re mostly clean, you’re in good shape.”

Talisa gets pulled away then, to the one sort-of game Catelyn has snuck in. It, at least, isn’t humiliating, so Talisa humors the older woman and scans the poster board stuck full of baby photos, trying to guess which women belong to which picture. It’s particularly hard given the number of women she doesn’t know, but there are a few obvious ones. Brienne’s blue eyes and pale hair are easily identifiable, as is Arya’s stubborn glare, even as a toddler. Talisa finds Ygritte too, because she can’t think of anyone else who would have a toddler photo that includes a small axe. Talisa is struck by some of the pictures — if she wasn’t told differently, she’d have guessed the photos of Sansa and her mother as babies were the same person, and Dany looks surprisingly solemn as a toddler gazing into the camera with a stuffed dragon clutched in one tiny hand. 

Talisa finds herself overwhelmed at the number of baby gifts. Catelyn has her sit in a special chair — thankfully padded and comfortable — and perches next to her with a notebook writing down a list of which gifts are from which people so Talisa and Robb can write thank you notes later. (Talisa isn’t sure where she’s supposed to find the addresses for all these people, so she’s already decided it’s going to be Robb’s problem.) Catelyn also insists that Talisa hold up each gift so it can be admired. 

Talisa is surprised by the generosity, but unsurprisingly she’s most touched by the presents from people who actually know them. It isn’t that she doesn’t appreciate the mountains of tiny baby clothes and cloth diaper supplies (which she thinks seem like way too much effort, but again — she’ll make that Robb’s problem) and two strollers, plus the baby bath gear and strange cushions and a bunch of other things Talisa isn't even sure they’ll need. It’s just that a lot of it doesn’t feel personal.

But Sansa has knit several little sweaters, plus a set with a beautiful baby blanket in shades of green, with a matching sweater and hat and booties, which look very simple and non-gendered. Margaery has sewn a collection of stuffed forest creatures for the baby. Shireen gives a stack of beautifully illustrated children’s books, and Val presents Talisa with a long length of beautiful fabric, which is mystifying until Val explains it can be wrapped in different ways to carry a baby. 

Brienne gives a play mat that’s supposed to help with brain development, plus a gift certificate for Evenfall’s, and Ygritte skips baby stuff entirely, giving Talisa a coffee press, an enormous amount of coffee, and a basket of fancy bath things. Missy gives Talisa a beautiful mobile with little carved animals and sparkly stars and moons, apparently made by Grey, and Dany has found a scarily realistic stuffed snake and several books about reptiles. 

Arya has found stuffed versions of various sports balls, plus a rattle shaped like a sword, apparently so the baby can figure out which sports it will like, and Meera has somehow located a baby hiking outfit, complete with tiny sunhat and hiking boots. 

Talisa still feels incredibly overwhelmed when the party ends, but Catelyn looks pleased and promises to help shuttle gifts over to the house with more warmth than Talisa’s ever seen from her. That, she supposes, makes it all worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, Robb goes out to the diner with his father, his brothers, Asha, and a couple of Ned's friends. They eat cheese fries and burgers and then go play pool at Littlefinger's. Ned and some of the other dads gives Robb a couple gifts like a plain colored diaper bag and baby carrier. Jon finds a onesie that says "I get my brains from my mom" and gives it to Robb. The end. 
> 
> The activities are all ones I've seen at actual baby showers, and are generally not too awful. The onesie decorating was something we did at my last office for new parents, and feedback was it was a great, because then they had a near endless supply of outfits to toss in the wash and put on a fresh one when the baby made a mess. Also, they wound up with onesies that said things like "seize the means of milk production" because that's just how we rolled. 
> 
> Also, though I've gotten over my fear of babies, I still am not a parent so my go to gift is always a mix of Shireen and Sansa. Knitted items and books. 
> 
> Thanks to beta extraordinaire ElizaDunc! She's plowing through the work as I try frantically to catch up to myself so I can do advent prompts again. It's insane but I'm going for it.


	102. Give Me Your Heart (Make It Real)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and the kids come to dinner at Selwyn's.

Dinner is going to be a disaster. Brienne can feel it in her bones.

She’s tried to explain to her father that she and Jaime aren’t dating, really, they’ve been spending time together, yes but that doesn’t mean it’s dating. 

But Jaime did say he wants to date her and Brienne isn’t opposed to the idea, exactly, but Jaime is so beautiful it hurts to look at him sometimes so how is she supposed to believe it’s real?

Ellaria has a lot to say about that when Brienne brings it up.

She also had a lot to say when Brienne confessed that holding hands with Jaime made her stomach lurch in an alarming fashion and that she felt way too excited about such a simple thing. She’s approaching forty, it’s embarrassing to be so emotional over nothing.

Selwyn has been unmoved by all of Brienne’s arguments, however, and so the Lannisters will be joining them for dinner. Her father’s house smells wonderful, but that doesn’t mean she’s not dreading everything. 

She’d thought about putting her foot down about it all, but her father had looked so hopeful and excited about the idea and well … Brienne can’t crush him by saying no.

The kids, at least, seem delighted (Tommen) and pleasant (Myrcella). Though Tommen’s face falls when Brienne explains that her cats aren’t here, because this is her father’s house. Myrcella seems intrigued by Selwyn’s rather odd collection of knicknacks, and pokes around on the shelves with fascination. 

“I’m so sorry,” Brienne tells Jaime quietly. 

“I don’t mind.” Jaime gives her a small smile. “Though I had hoped to take you out on a few official dates before meeting your father.”

Brienne isn’t sure what makes a date official or not. 

“He gets a little over-enthusiastic,” Brienne tries to explain. “He just … he really worries about me being alone.”

“That’s sweet.”

Brienne shrugs. Her father loves her, but he’s never understood that Brienne doesn’t share his outgoing, easily affectionate nature. Even Asha had been shocked at the difference between them when she first met Selwyn, though she’d adapted admirably. 

“Are we having pizza?” Myrcella asks, hope in her voice. 

“No, we are having seared tuna steaks,” Selwyn says. Mycella scrunches up her nose.

“We’re also having lemon potatoes, squash and onions, and tomato salad,” Brienne says. 

“Brienne made the salad,” Selwyn announces, as they all sit down. Like throwing together a salad is some big accomplishment. Brienne ducks her head as he and Jaime both praise the food.

“Dad did everything else.” The tuna steaks are perfect, cool and red in the center but nicely done on the edges. Tommen pokes his with a fork for a while, though, before he can be convinced to take a bite. Even after, he seems unsure about them. 

“So, Jaime,” Selwyn says. “How did you meet my daughter.”

“Well, she tried very hard to not give me some cats,” Jaime says with a grin, and Brienne groans. Jaime tells a long story about his adoption of Brenna — though he doesn’t mention the kittens, oddly enough, and shakes his head at Brienne when she starts to say something about the visit to the shelter. She isn’t sure why until Tommen pipes in.

“And Santa brought me Ser Pounce and Lady Whiskers so Brenna has company!” Tommen grins at Selwyn.

“How lucky,” Selwyn tells Tommen seriously, before turning his attention back to Jaime. 

“I just kept thinking about the cat wench,” Jaime continues, ignoring Brienne’s glare and protests about being called a wench. “She’s unforgettable.”

That’s true, though usually people don’t remember Brienne for good reasons. It isn’t like there are tons of six foot plus women wandering around, especially ones who look like her. 

“And then he pestered me until I agreed to get coffee,” Brienne says, trying to smile so Jaime knows she’s not actually upset.

Selwyn continues to grill Jaime about his job, his hobbies, and everything else under the sun, though he does pause to ask Tommen and Myrcella about their schools, friends and cats. 

It’s a lot of the same things she and Jaime have talked about, but it’s nice to see her father nod along as Jaime talks about the same historical podcasts he listens to and the fantasy novels Brienne enjoys along witth his love of hiking and rock climbing. 

Selwyn is particularly delighted to find out that Jaime shares his love of movies.

“Brienne could never sit still long enough,” Selwyn says fondly. “Not for most movies. Or she’d rather read a book. But I used to go to the movies every week as a kid, and her mother and I did the same.” 

“My brother and I went as kids,” Jaime says. “But he’d rather read too.” 

“At least when I’m reading, the ending doesn’t get ruined by cliches,” Brienne mutters. She’s still upset about the ending to Dance of Dragons, she’d finally given in and watched the show only to find out the writers seemed to have never read the books and spent the entire final season undoing every single big of character development, reducing women to stereotypes, and also failing to answer half the mysteries. 

“Dance of Dragons was a TV show,” Jaime points out, because he hasn’t gotten over it either. 

“Ugh, not that again,” Myrcella sighs. “I wasn’t even allowed to watch it and I know it was awful.”

“And you won’t be allowed to watch it for many years,” Jaime tells her. “And you’re never watching the final season, nobody deserves to be punished like that.”

“Still, they said they wrote it the way they did because of limitations on filming and time — the same problem movies have,” Brienne argues. “I’d rather read the book.”

“If the last two ever come out,” Jaime mutters. 

“Wasn’t that the one you’re mad about because they don’t say if the dragons are cold-blooded?” Selwyn asks. Jaime starts laughing.

“It’s a relevant question,” Brienne defends herself. “Especially if they’re going to be fighting ice zombies!”

“But they’re made of fire,” Jaime argues. “They aren’t like regular animals.”

“But how do we know that?” Brienne says, and because it isn’t a new argument, they get sucked into the debate as everyone finishes. 

Selwyn clears his throat pointedly after a while, and Brienne realizes that everyone has finished eating, and somehow her father has cleared most of the table without her noticing. Tommen is doodling on a piece of paper her father must have gotten from somewhere, and he and Myrcella have a pile of cards between them. From the delighted look on Myrcella’s face, Brienne suspects Selwyn has either been teaching her bullshit or how to bet in poker. Both had been reliable hits with any classmate unlucky enough to get stuck with Brienne for class projects in school. They may have resented having to spend time with the weird, ugly girl, but they definitely liked Selwyn’s cooking and the freedom to shout swear words or gamble with M&Ms. 

“He’s a nice boy,” Selwyn comments, after Jaime has sheepishly gathered up the children and left. “When’s the wedding?”

Brienne sighs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY THANKSGIVING to my fellow Americans. And to everyone else, um, happy Thursday? 
> 
> I hope we're all enjoying a socially-distanced day with some good food and joy even during this apocalyptic hellscape.


	103. Papa Don't Preach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen and Rickon get an unpleasant interruption.

Lazy weekend days are even better when they're shared, Shireen learns. She loves lying in bed with Rickon, slowly waking up with gentle touches and kisses. Shireen is running her hands over Rickon's chest, slowly rocking against him, where she can feel he’s growing hard when there's a series of three sharp knocks on her door.

Shireen freezes.

"Oh shit," she says.

"Ignore it," Rickon says, his voice thick with sleep. He rocks his hips up against her, and even in her panic, Shireen can't resist grinding back against him.

"I can't," Shireen says. "That's my dad. And he's not going to go away."

It's almost impressive how fast Rickon's erection wilts at that. 

"Put something on," Shireen says, throwing his boxers at him as she scrambles into the nearest piece of clothing. Which, judging by the size, seems to be Rickon's tee shirt. She throws her robe on over it as there’s another series of three raps, hoping that disguises what she's wearing.

Not that her father isn't going to figure out what's happening anyway.

There's really no explanation for a man in Shireen's apartment at — she checks the clock — eight in the morning. 

Especially when said man doesn't seem to be in any hurry to put on pants. 

Shireen runs her fingers through her hair before making her way to the door, trying to keep it mostly closed as she greets her father.

Stannis frowns. "Shireen, I have heard the most disturbing news."

"Oh?" Shireen tries to sound casual. She thinks she sounds casual.

This is ridiculous. She's twenty-six years old, she's allowed to sleep with whoever she wants. Her father gets no say in it.

Stannis looks Shireen over, then firmly pushes the door more open. His face gets stormier as he takes in the apartment. Shireen almost doesn't want to turn around and look, but there's really no point delaying. 

Rickon has not found pants. He has, at least, found something to do, and is busy starting the kettle for her tea and getting coffee going in the machine Shireen bought for him to use. 

Even with Stannis glowering at them both, Shireen feels a little swoop of happiness at the way Rickon looks so at home in her kitchen. 

"Shireen," Stannis says, "I see the rumors are correct." 

Shireen shrugs a little.

"I am very disappointed in you," Stannis says, not bothering to lower his voice. "You have always been a good girl, and now you're dating this ... delinquent."

"He's not a delinquent, Dad." Shireen sighs. "And I'm still the same person I have been."

"My daughter would know better than to date someone so unsuited. And to have him here ..." Stannis trails off.

Shireen bites her tongue, rather than point out that lectures on premarital sex are pretty rich coming from a man who cheated on his wife with a woman who was part of a sex and fire cult. That definitely involved a lot of group sex, although Shireen tries very hard not to think about that. Instead, she focuses on the sound of Rickon clattering around in her kitchen.

"I'm twenty-six," Shireen says. "I'm an adult, and I'm allowed to live my life as I see fit."

"Did something happen?" Stannis stares intently at her. "Are you alright? Did you hit your head? I think we should make an appointment with Dr. Pycelle."

"This is not the time —” Shireen starts, at the same time Rickon says "Are you fucking kidding me?" 

"I don't believe this conversation concerns you, young man." If looks could kill, Stannis would have murdered Rickon six times over by now.

"It's about me, isn't it?" 

Shireen feels, rather than sees, Rickon come up behind her. 

"This is my life," Shireen says, hoping she can defuse the tension. "I care about Rickon, he's a wonderful person, and I'm sorry if you don't like it, but I get to decide who I date."

"This isn't like you, Shireen." Stannis takes a step forward, then stops before touching her. Shireen isn't surprised. Her father has never been one for human contact. "I've already called Doctor Pycelle, he'll be able to see you and we can figure out what's going on here."

"I don't need a psychiatrist." Shireen barely lets her father stop before talking, in hopes of beating Rickon to the punch. 

"Well, something must have gone wrong," Stannis says. "I mean, really Shireen. He's only going to hurt you."

"No, that would be you." Rickon's voice is barely controlled fury. "I would die before I hurt your daughter, and I'll kill anyone who lays a hand on her."

Rickon's words are probably the farthest thing from helpful, but Shireen can't help feeling a surge of warmth at how clear the honesty is in his words.

"I'm certainly not going to let someone set her on fire," Rickon continues."Or let anyone humiliate her by suggesting her injuries are her fault." 

Stannis glowers. "Now, you see here young man --"

"I do see," Rickon says. "I see a man who cared more about getting fucked than his own daughter. I may have tattoos, I may have a record, but I love Shireen for who she is, instead of insisting she act a certain way."

There's a lot to process in that statement but Shireen is busy having a moment where everything fades away except Rickon saying he loves her.

She snaps back to just as her father finishes whatever rant he's having with a demand for Shireen — if she stays with Rickon, he can't continue to be a part of her life.

"That's no choice," Shireen tells him, over Rickon softly telling her he understands, he can leave. Shireen stops Rickon, wrapping his arm around her waist and leaning back into the solid strength of him.

She holds it together as Stannis gives one final burst of anger, about how disappointed he is in Shireen, and how he thought he'd raised her better, before stomping out and slamming the door. Then Shireen realizes she's started shaking and is having trouble standing.

Rickon doesn't let her fall, he scoops her up and carries her to the bed, bundling her in the covers. 

"I'm sorry," Rickon tells her, coming back to the bed with a steaming cup of her favorite tea. "This is my fault."

"No, it's not." Shireen sets the mug on her nightstand and tugs Rickon down onto the bed. He immediately wraps his arms around her and Shireen can’t help the tears that start to fall. “I should have known he’d find out.”

Rickon brushes her hair back. “I didn’t realize we were a secret.” 

Shireen manages to give him a skeptical look amid her tears and Rickon sighs.

“Okay, I hadn’t introduced you to my parents but they know I’m dating a teacher. It’s not my fault they can’t put two and two together.” Rickon sounds slightly bitter and Shireen knows it’s because his parents don’t see how he’s changed as he’s grown up. He’s told her how they cringe and sigh at mentions of his dates and how they don’t bother to look at anything other than the surface.

“It’s not you,” Shireen assures him. “I don’t … I try not to tell him much of anything, if I can.” 

“He doesn’t approve?”

“It depends. Sometimes. Other times, he just wants to control and micro-manage it.” Like when she’d gotten her job and Stannis had read several books on classical education — none of the modern nonsense, he said — and tried to edit her lesson plans. He’d tried to get her out of her lease too, saying the studio apartment wasn't suitable, but Baelish wouldn’t back down once Shireen signed. It’s the one and only time she’s ever been grateful for the slimy weasel of a man. 

“My family will love you,” Rickon says. “Maybe you should come to dinner soon.”

“I thought you were saving it?”

Rickon shrugs. “I’ll find another way to shock them.”

“You know, that might be why they don’t believe you about anything.” 

“Rude.” Rickon kisses the top of her head when he says it, though. “I’m sorry your dad’s being a jerk.”

“He’s not going to give up,” Shireen says. She can feel it — her father thinks she’s somehow lost her mind and he won’t let it go. 

“Maybe we should stay at my place for a bit.” Rickon grins at her. “You’ll get to see the Man-Cave. A rare privilege.”

Shireen raises her eyebrows. “Uh-huh.” 

“I’ll clean it first,” Rickon promises. “With actual cleaner and everything.” 

Shireen decides she doesn’t want to know what other cleaning options exist. “It’s a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to elizadunc who is an amazing beta!
> 
> Don't read too much into the title, in terms of future plot points. It just seemed to work as statement on judgement regardless of specific circumstances. 
> 
> Sorry for the delay — I'd hoped to catch up and do a bunch for Christmas but that probably won't happen. I have some chapters in beta and a few to write, but I got some bad news. My oldest cat is dying; I thought I'd have to say goodbye last week but a few nights in the kitty hospital seems to have bought us some time. Still, it's made it a bit tough to write, especially happy things. I'm just trying to give the old girl some good care while she's able to enjoy it. She's a tough old bird, though. Nobody thought she was going to respond to the first night of treatment, it was a last ditch effort, but she rallied. Sorry to put such an unhappy note on a fluff fic but I feel you guys deserve to know why things might be a bit scattered.


	104. Party in the USA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the 4th of July in Westeros!

“You know what I smell?” 

Jon cracks an eye open as Ygritte yanks the pillow off of his head. 

“What do you smell?” he asks, finally, as Ygritte sits there grinning at him like a maniac. 

“Freedom!” Ygritte flings her arms out to the side and Jon can see she’s wearing a shirt with ‘Fuck Yeah ‘Merica’ printed on it. 

Jon frowns. “I thought you hated the ‘racist and fascist structures of government’.”

“I do,” Ygritte says. Jon notices she’s also wearing very short, cut-off shorts with the shirt. “But I do like armed revolution.”

“Please don’t say things like that, I don’t want to have to arrest you.”

“Psht.” Ygritte waves a hand. “You’re not Secret Service, nobody cares.”

“Threatening armed rebellion is kind of an issue for cops too,” Jon reminds her.

“Well, you could always take me into custody and keep an eye on me.” Ygritte gives him a lascivious smirk and reclines on the bed, arms crossed above her head. “Cuff me, Officer Snow.”

“No.” Jon’s had this discussion too many times already. “Do you really want to be in cuffs that were last used on Victarion Greyjoy?”

“Ew, no.” Ygritte pouts a bit, but then bounces out of the bed. “Come on!”

A hastily chugged cup of coffee later, Jon and Ygritee head downtown. It’s later than Jon expects, he hadn’t meant to sleep so late. Although tables and booths are set up for the festival, everyone is closing up shop to head for the display, and they barely have a chance to grab a cup of Planter’s Punch from Lothar Frey before joining everyone in the square. 

Ygritte scrambles up a tree to get a better view since they’re stuck at the back of the crowd. Between gaps in the people, Jon can see Uncle Ned in colonial garb, along with Cat and Sansa. He doesn’t see Robb, presumably because Talisa is about to pop and Robb has been pacing around like a caged animal, jumping up ready to run to the hospital every time Talisa opens her mouth.

Chief Selmy gets up and blows a bugle to draw attention, and then Uncle Ned starts says a bit about patriotism and remembrance before reading the Declaration of Independence in a booming voice. Jon suddenly understands why Ygritte was so eager to make it when Ned starts the first line. 

“If you’re white!” Ygritte yells, as Ned says the part about all men created equal. She pipes up again at unalienable rights, shouting “Unless they’re women!” in a loud voice. 

Several people turn around to glare at her. Jon tries to look like he’s not a part of anything.

Ygritte continues to heckle, responding to the litany of King George’s offenses with examples of the times the Republican party has done similar. She cheerfully concludes by shouting “Your honor is shit!” as Ned finishes. 

“Freedom of speech,” Ygritte says from her perch, when Officer Tollett fights his way through the crowd and asks what she’s doing.

“I’m not here,” Jon tells Edd, who nods solemnly. 

“I have rights,” Ygritte declares. “I’m not doing anything illegal.”

After a hurried radio conversation, presumably with Chief Selmy, Edd has to concede the point. 

“I don’t suppose you’d like to exercise your rights more quietly?” he asks Ygritte, in a mournful tone. Jon would think he’s recognized the futility of his question, but Edd always sounds mournful, so he can’t really tell. 

“Nope,” Ygritte says. She leaps down from the tree, grinning at Jon. “Hot dog?”

Jon follows, giving Edd an apologetic look. He’s so busy trying to avoid the glances of his family and his fellow officers that he almost doesn’t notice Arya, who’s standing in the middle of everything, mouth hanging open, with a very un-Arya like look on her face.

He’ll have to find out what that’s about later.

Gendry is a blacksmith.

Gendry is a _blacksmith_.

Somehow this has not been mentioned in their conversations, until last week when Gendry casually mentioned that he’d be working with Mott during the festival, doing demonstrations. There’s a bunch of booths set up in the square, old-timey crafts and shit, mostly to raise money for the Gift. The Rangers want to reconstruct some early settlement that was there, make it a tourist attraction or something, they’ve been trying to raise funds for years. 

Anyway, Gendry is blacksmithing and Arya has clearly not grasped the significance of this piece of information, because he’s standing there, in stupid period costume just like most of her family, except Gendry makes breeches look far less dorky than Arya’s brothers ever have. And he seems to have stripped out of his shirt already as he holds a piece of metal over an anvil and whacks on it with a hammer. 

Talisa’s commented on Gendry’s arms before, and Arya has mostly ignored her, but suddenly she can just see all the muscles in Gendry’s arms and chest and abs and back as he swings the hammer and he’s sweaty but it’s not gross, he’s glistening and Arya suddenly feels way too warm for nine o’clock in the morning.

Arya is suddenly jostled out of her staring when Sansa plants herself in front of her and waves her hand “Hello! Arya!” The annoyed tone in Sansa’s voice reminds Arya of when they were teenagers. “We’ve been trying to get your attention for like, five minutes.”

“Oh, I think I see why.” Margaery follows Arya’s eyeline and starts laughing. Arya takes a minute to contemplate the strange sight they make. Sansa is, like their mother, attired in full colonial garb, from the white cap on her carefully styled hair down to the buckled shoes that look terribly uncomfortable. Arya knows she’s wearing multiple layers of shifts, petticoats, stays and so-on, because Catelyn had tried to force Arya into those outfits too, when she was younger. Arya has no idea how Sansa isn’t melting.

Margaery, on the other hand, has opted for a flag print minidress and flip flops. 

Sansa follows Margaery’s gaze, though she doesn’t stop spinning with the drop spindle she’s carrying. She must be helping with the demonstrations. 

“Do you look like that every time you see Gendry with his shirt off?” Sansa sounds like she’s going to start laughing and Arya can’t help the flush that rises in her cheeks.

“Oh.” Sansa suddenly gets quieter. “You haven’t seen Gendry with his shirt off?”

Margaery’s the one looking stunned now, gazing at Arya. 

“So what?” 

“I mean,” Sansa says, hesitantly. “You’ve been dating a while now.”

“So?” Arya tries to look at her sister and not Gendry, because she has a feeling this conversation is a trap.

“It’s just … I mean, I thought you’d have …” Sansa trails off, looking at her girlfriend for help. 

“I’m sure Gendry is just being respectful of Arya’s boundaries,” Margaery says, giving Arya a look that seems split between pity and encouragement. “That’s all.”

Arya isn’t sure what else there could be to it, but she has a sinking feeling she’s going to be turning Margaery’s words around in her head for a while. 

“We’re grabbing Shireen and Rickon,” Sansa says, artificially peppy. “You should come.”

Arya trails after them, because she really doesn’t need to be sitting there staring at Gendry like an absolute moron. Even if he is all shiny and impressive. She decides it isn’t too early for a piece of flag cake that Old Nan is handing out in front of their parents store, also dressed in colonial attire. Arya is not at all surprised to see Shireen has dressed up as well, which looks hilarious next to Rickon’s ripped jeans and tee shirt. And eyeliner. 

“I’m helping with a demonstration on tatting later,” Shireen explains, Arya nods absently as she watches the staff in front of City Hall and the Courthouse. Grandfather Hoster has a large tray of chicken thighs next to the large grill on the square, plus a tray of hamburgers. Mayor Arryn is glaring at him, with his own grill loaded with hot dogs.

Arya thinks she’ll have one of the ones wrapped in bacon. 

“I don’t know how you can eat that this early in the morning,” Sansa says, looking a little green, as Arya returns with a bacon-wrapped hot dog in one hand and hamburger in the other.

“Gotta start early or you won’t be able to try everything,” Arya responds.

“Pacing,” Shireen agrees. Rickon shoves half a burger in his mouth and grins at Arya. She chews loudly in his direction in response. 

Sansa doesn’t look convinced and suggests they head to the garden center next, where several Umbers are presiding over a table full of old jars and tins, paint, stickers and fancy tape. 

“Ooh,” Sansa says, and immediately gathers a handful of supplies. Arya sighs, but everyone else follows her sister — including Rickon, which makes Arya’s jaw drop. 

“Are you kidding me?” she demands. 

“It’s kind of relaxing, actually,” Rickon says, carefully applying red and white tape to a bottle. “I think I’ll make a Captain America vase.” 

Arya catches a glimpse of Danaerys and Missandei outside the window. She wonders what they’re doing and if she can escape, but Sansa drags her into a chair before she even gets halfway to the door.

“I just have mixed feelings about the 4th, you know?” Missandei says. She’s still sipping her Berry Americano from Wilding’s. That and the flag shaped fruit plate at the Citadel is about all the food either of them has the appetite for so far, since most things seem to be very heavy and/or meat-based. Which is a bit much before noon.

“I agree,” Dany says. “Like, should we really be proud?” 

“I mean, the legacy of colonialism.” Missy shakes her head, taking a cup of watermelon salad from Renly. “But I do like the food, even if I’m trying to cut back on meat, so …”

“I’m not a fan of the fireworks,” Dany admits. She’s put out a tray of CBD treats for cats and dogs, and a prominent display of thunder shirts at the pet store, leaving Daario in charge for now. “My mom’s always hated loud noises, anytime we were anywhere with them, she’d freak out.”

“A lot of people do.” Missy sighs. “But that doesn’t stop anyone. My neighbors have been setting things off all week.”

Dany takes a cup of Varys’s snack mix, then picks a red carnation from Ros’s red white and blue flower display. Then she sees Drogo out front at the gym, a large smoker in front of him, and her jaw drops.

“I thought you only ate healthy food?” Dany finally manages to get out, once she stops noting the way Drogo’s biceps look in his tank top. 

“Protein is healthy,” Drogo says. “Dothraki ribs are slow-cooked for hours, and you won’t find anything better.”

It’s far too early for barbeque, but Dany finds herself taking a rib regardless, smoke billowing out of the device as Drogo opens it and retrieves a bit of meat. Missy shakes her head. 

It smells good at least, as Dany sighs and decides to just give in to the grilling extravaganza, even before noon. She can see Brienne down the block with Lannister, looking somewhat less awkward than previous festivals, and waves before taking a bite.

Drogo’s not wrong.

“I’m so sorry,” Jaime says, ushering Brienne into the bookstore ahead of him. Myrcella and Tommen have already tumbled ahead and looking at the display of children’s books Tyrion has set out on one table. “Tyrion has opinions about this holiday.”

“Because it’s a celebration of genocide,” Tyrion says, frowning. “We just paint it up in fancy words.”

“Our country isn’t all bad,” Jaime argues. 

“It’s not all good, either.” Tyrion gestures at the tables. “So I am simply inviting people to look into the history and culture of the indigenous peoples we tried our best to eradicate and who are still ill-treated and discriminated against today.”

“Cheerful,” Jaime mutters. Brienne elbows him in the side.

“Also, have some salad.” Tyrion hands each of them a cup. “Corn, beans, and squash were food staples for many native nations.”

Tommen pokes doubtfully at his food.

“It’s a vegetable, Tommen,” Tyrion tells him. “I know your Uncle Jaime isn’t very familiar with them, but they’re good for you.”

Brienne tries not to laugh, but she can’t help it, because the affronted expression on Jaime’s face is priceless. 

“I’ll get you a cheesecake bar if you eat it,” Jaime promises. Tyrion sighs and drops his face into his hands.

“Jaime, that is not how you’re supposed to feed children.”

“What?” Jaime says, as Tommen takes the tiny plastic spork and begins eating his salad. “He’s eating it, isn’t he?”

Tyrion is still grumbling when they wave goodbye and stop at Gilly’s, who cheerfully hands cheesecake bars. Brienne opts for the raspberry flavor, while Jaime and Myrcella get blueberry and Tommen sticks to plain . 

“What is this?” Tommen asks, looking at the sample of Rescue Remedy he’d grabbed at the vet’s when they picked up Brienne. 

“Sometimes animals don’t like fireworks,” Brienne explains. “So this helps them stay calm.”

Tommen looks stricken at the thought. “You mean the kitties will be upset?”

“Not necessarily,” Brienne assures him. “Sometimes they don’t mind at all. But you have that, just in case.”

Tommen nods seriously, and thankfully doesn’t seem to realize he’ll still be downtown when the fireworks start. Brienne waves at Dany, whose face is covered in sauce as she munches on a piece of meat, looking surprisingly feral, before taking cups of red white and blue tea from Loras, who’s sitting outside the yarn store. Rather than a patriotic display, the store is showing a Christmas in July theme, with “It’s Never Too Early To Get Started” in big letters on the glass.

“Holiday knitting,” Loras says, nodding at them all. “It piles up.”

Brienne is still plugging dutifully away on the scarf Sansa made her start last December and it’s nowhere near scarf length. She thinks holiday knitting is not a thing that’s in her future. Myrcella eyes the sparkly yarns in one pile and signs up on a list of people interested in knitting classes. 

“Miss Sansa knits,” says Myrcella, who has apparently decided Sansa is glamorous and admirable. “It’s so cool.”

“Brienne knits too,” Jaime says helpfully, as they all get cups of baked beans from the teenaged Cassel handing them out at the bowling alley. 

Myrcella turns wide eyes on Brienne. “Do you really?” 

“A little bit,” Brienne says. “I’m nowhere as good as Sansa.” 

“I bet that’s not true,” Jaime says. Brienne rolls her eyes

“Sansa’s been knitting for 23 years, I’ve been learning for six months,” she says. “I think she’s got the advantage.”

“I bet you’re still great,” Jaime says, giving Brienne far too much credit as they step inside Sew What and Tommen makes a beeline for the table where Tysha is having people dye bandanas or tee shirts (for a small charge) that look like firework prints. He scrambles into a seat that’s been left when Ygritte gets up, fingers and arms covered in dye as she waves them menacingly at Jon Snow. 

“I will get you!” Ygritte yells, as she chases Jon out of the store. He barely misses running into Sam, who takes a long look at him, then Ygritte, before fishing a pack of baby wipes out of one of his cargo short pockets.

“Why do you have baby wipes?” Ygritte demands, as she starts wiping paint off her hands.

Sam looks mystified by the question. “Well, if you need to clean something up of course.”

“Good thing he does have them,” Jon mutters. He takes the opportunity to take a cup of potato salad from Val. 

“It’s better than Addam’s,” Val says. “And the cups are compostable.”

“They’re made of corn,” Sam says helpfully. Ygritte promptly takes a bite out of hers, then frowns and spits it out.

“Doesn’t taste like corn,” she says.

“I don’t think they’re meant to be edible,” Val says. “It’s Auntie Talla’s recipe.”

Ygritte grins. “Oh, it’s the best then.”

As far as Jon can tell, it mostly has a lot of dill. More dill, he thinks, than should reasonably be expected in potato salad.

He has the good sense not to say that. 

They finish their potato salad and wander across to Martell’s, where Oberyn is stirring an extremely large vat of something with a slightly manic gleam in his eye. 

“You have to try my gumbo,” he purrs. 

Ygritte grins openly as they all take bowls, and Jon gives into the urge to pull her to his side, glaring at Martell and his flirtatious eyebrows. 

“Gilly!” Sam cries, before Oberyn stops laughing at Jon, and stumbles over the sidewalk in his effort to meet Gilly.

Gilly doesn’t seem to mind, beaming at Sam.

“I’m so glad I got Dyah to watch the bakery,” She says, and kisses Sam on the cheek. “I never get to explore.”

“Shame on your sisters,” Ygritte says, wiggling out of Jon’s grasp and throwing an arm over Gilly’s shoulders. The two women chatter excitedly as they walk on, grabbing kebabs from Syrio and steak bites with chimichurri sauce from the frankly terrifying woman who works at the pharmacy. She’s been there for years, and Jon still doesn't know her name, but everyone just calls her the waif. She looks normal enough, but something about her terrifies Jon.

Sansa thinks he’s being ridiculous, but Arya agrees with him. 

Speaking of his sisters, Jon sees them heading back toward the square as he picks up fried green tomatoes from Sand Snakes. Arya looks even more murderous than usual, and Sansa looks delighted, so he’s glad he’s nowhere near whatever is going on.

“No,” Arya mutters. “I will not.”

Sansa sighs, adjusting her skirt. “Honestly Arya, you’re dating the man, just go up and give him the plate.”

“I mean, that’s what you got it for, right?” Dany adds. She and Missandei joined the group at some point, which Sansa is not complaining about, especially since it means she has help trying to get her younger sister to act like a regular person. 

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” Missandei adds. 

Arya scowls at the plate of food, stacked with a slider from Fat Walda’s — who’d taken ages to hand it over, she’s taking the one freebie per person rule VERY seriously and did not want to believe the plate was for somebody who’s working — berry crumble from Obara’s, tomato bruschetta from Evenfall’s, plus a hot dog, potato salad and watermelon salad, two kebabs from Syrio, gumbo, and a big piece of flag cake. Catelyn had just about swooned when she saw what Arya was doing, and Sansa’s pretty sure that’s behind Arya’s sudden resistance.

“I don’t want to be one of those women who waits on men,” Arya grumbles.

“I assure you, nobody thinks that,” Shireen says. Rickon snorts and she pokes him in the side before scooting away. They’d broken apart before Cregan’s — apparently, Rickon is still refusing to let their parents know who he’s dating. “But he’d get food for you too, right?”

“I mean, yeah.” Arya still looks uncertain. “I guess.”

“You know he does,” Sansa says. “I’ve seen him, he does nice things for you all the time.”

“If he gets snarky, you can always shove the salad in his face,” Margaery adds helpfully. Sansa sighs. 

“What? It worked,” Margaery says, and sure enough Arya has set off at a determined pace. It looks like she slams the plate down on the table at the blacksmithing tent, as much as one can slam a paper plate, but that doesn’t stop Gendry from grinning broadly at her.

“Aww,” Missandei sighs, when Gendry ignores crossed arms and sullen glare to bend down and kiss her gently. At least Arya relaxes at that, and sneaks a hand around to grope at Gendry’s bicep.

“Get it girl,” Dany says, watching as Gendry laughs gently at Arya when they pull apart. Wisely, he takes the plate and holds it out of her reach, because it looks like Arya was about to take Margaery’s advice.

It doesn’t make sense to Sansa — she knows Arya is skittish about relationships and therefore would want to take things slow, but she’d have guessed Arya and Gendry had gotten a lot farther by looking at them. Certainly, Gendry seems completely smitten as he eats his food, gazing fondly at Arya, who has begun poking around in the blacksmithing tools. 

Then Arya turns, sees them all staring, and flips her middle finger up. 

“Come on,” Margaery says, tugging them away. “I heard the Martell Inn is finished and I want to see.”

They drop Shireen off at one of the craft booths, where she picks up a pillow of half-finished lace and starts working. Sansa is delighted and surprised to see Rickon watching attentively as they chat, looking genuinely interested in the work Shireen is doing. 

“Since when do you care about needlework?” she asks when they finally pull him away.

Rickon shrugs. “I mean, it’s kind of magical that she can do that stuff, just like … pick up a pile of string and suddenly it’s lace.”

Suddenly is a bit of an overstatement given how long most fiber crafts take. And even so …

“You never cared when mom and I did it,” Sansa points out. 

“Yeah, well,” Rickon shrugs. “You’re my mom and sister.” 

They stop at Tarly’s for tiny little plates of pork loin with berry sauce before stopping at the Inn. Maege and her crew have done great work —- the building, which had been showing signs of neglect is back to its former glory. The stone facade has been scrubbed clean of graffiti and repaired, The red roof has been repaired too, and golden banners decorate the front, along with a large golden awning over the circular drive out front. The Inn is set back from the sidewalk to allow for the entrance, and large planters of flowers decorate any empty space. It’s a bigger building even than Lannister bank, looming four stories high over the street.

Doran Martell looks enough like Oberyn to tell they’re related, but Doran is soft where his brother is all fierce lines and sharp smiles. Doran sits in a wheelchair, attended by a broad shouldered man with white hair, and greets them all politely as he hands over cups of grilled corn mixed with cheese and mayonnaise and seasoning.

“Elote is a childhood favorite of mine,” Doran says. His gaze lingers on Daenerys, who has stayed at the back of the group, though he doesn’t comment. 

They run into Jaime and Brienne at Reed’s, after Sansa has to drag Rickon away from the Iron Crown, where he’s growling and looks like he’s about to hit Melisandre, who is passing out lit sparklers. 

“Fire bitch,” Rickon mutters as they leave, throwing Melisandre a dark look.

Sansa is overjoyed to see Jaime and Brienne holding hands again. Brienne looks like she still can’t believe it’s happening, and Jaime keeps glancing over with the most ridiculously besotted face Sansa has ever seen. 

Tommen and Myrcella have American flags and fireworks painted on their faces, and are adorned with pipe cleaner rings and bracelets of rolled paper beads in red, white and blue. Missandei has to stop Tommen from accidentally setting off his confetti popper, he’s so eager, but apparently the kids are meant to save them for fireworks. 

“You’re sure it’s safe?” Jaime carefully examines the bread spread with a wild mushroom spread Meera hands him, as if it’s going to bite him.

“We’ve been foraging mushrooms for years,” Meera says. “I promise, we know what we’re doing.” 

“No one will die unless we want them to,” Jojen promises.

Jaime looks more alarmed by that. 

Tommen takes a tentative bite, then surprisingly shoves the whole piece into his mouth.

“I like mushrooms,” he declares. 

“They’re good, aren’t they?” Missy agrees, producing a napkin from somewhere and wiping Tommen’s face. 

“You should learn about mushroom hunting,” Meera suggests. “You can find all sorts of neat things in the woods.” 

Dany and Missy stay with the Reeds and chat with Jaime and Brienne, while Margaery gives Sansa a grin and tugs her away.

“Hello, love,” Margaery says going up on tiptoes to kiss Sansa.

Sansa can’t help giggling.

“I love our friends, but I like spending time with just the two of us,” Margaery says. 

“Me too,” Sansa agrees. They pick up cups of Addam’s potato salad — less dill, more mustard, absolutely better than Val’s, he declares — and cones of sour cherry and blueberry goat cheese ice cream from Frozen North, before slipping into the alley by Tyrells.

Margaery is exceptionally delighted to realize Sansa’s dedication to historical accuracy extends to not wearing split crotch underwear, and Sansa isn’t too upset either, considering her knees are barely holding her up when Margaery emerges from under Sansa’s skirts. 

“Well, I see someone took after me.” Sansa turns bright red when she hears Olenna’s voice, as the older woman steps out of the back door of the store, cigarette case in hand. 

“Hi Grandmama.” Margaery waves, seemingly unphased.

Sansa waves weakly as well, as Olenna shakes her head. 

“I won’t tell your father if you don’t tell him about this,” she tells Margaery, waving her cigarette. 

“Tell him about what?” Margaery says, with wide-eyes and an innocent grin. 

“Well at least we’re even now,” Sansa says, after they grab mini lobster rolls and some of Ellaria’s orzo salad. “We’ve been caught by both our families.”

She should probably be more embarrassed about it than she is, but she can’t be. They end the afternoon with cherry mini pies from Tyene’s (“Pop your cherry?” the woman jokes, as she hands them out) and shots from Littlefingers. Sansa’s head is spinning from one too many glitter kamikazes and flag shots when they find their friends again at the fireworks. 

Rickon and Shireen are sitting slightly apart, but holding hands behind someone’s picnic basket, as Shireen giggles with Missy, who is leaning on the art teacher’s shoulder. Arya is inching closer to Gendry every time she thinks nobody is paying attention, and Dany has sprawled out on a blanket chatting with Myrcella. Tommen is falling asleep on one side of Jaime already, while his other arm is firmly wrapped around a blushing Brienne. Asha has gone home with Theon — Sansa knows he still can’t handle loud noises — but Val and Ygritte are loudly proclaiming the virtues of socialism while Jon tries his best to hide behind Sam and Gilly, who are cuddling together. Sansa has barely settled down to watch the show, hiking her skirts up in a very unladyllike fashion so Margaery can settle between her legs when she feels her phone buzz.

“Oh!” Sansa drops the phone in surprise. “Talisa’s having the baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ElizaDunc for beta-ing! 
> 
> A full list of festival offerings is on [my Tumblr](https://dancinginthecenteroftheworld.tumblr.com/post/637400298921623552/small-town-au-4th-of-july-festival).
> 
> Good news is, my cat has got over the initial emergency and seems to be hanging in there for at least a while — she's still quite old, so it's not a guarantee, but it seems she and I will have some more time together. Gave me a good scare, though!


	105. Let's Talk About You And Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry try to use their words!

Her entire family is losing their shit by the time the fireworks end, but Arya has zero interest in heading back to her parents house to stare at her phone and wait for Robb to text again. His last text had said the doctors were saying it could still be hours, even a day or more, before Talisa actually has the baby — which sounds utterly terrifying — and Arya doesn’t see the point in huddling together to wait on news. 

Besides, she has more important things to address.

She knows Gendry says he likes her, but she’s not stupid, she saw Sansa’s face when she realized Arya’d never seen him with his shirt off before and heard Margaery whispering to Dany about how it was a little weird if they’ve been together that long. And Dany saying the third date was when you’re supposed to have sex, which Arya thinks is a stupid rule, even if she had known about it before, but still.

She follows Gendry back to his apartment in Flea Bottom despite his protests about the neighborhood and tries to ignore the suspicious looks he’s been giving her ever since she brought him food.

She waits for him to change into jeans and a tee shirt and grab them beers before she speaks.

“Why haven’t we had sex?”

Half of Gendry’s beer goes all over the counter as he knocks the bottle over and inhales so hard he then starts coughing, beer coming out of his nose as well.

“Um,” Gendry says, once he’s wiped his face and can breathe normally. “What brought this on?”

“We’ve been dating for months,” Arya says. She finishes her own beer in several swallows and decides to get another. “And apparently it’s weird.”

“So?” Gendry asks, sounding more than a little defensive.

“So what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing!” Gendry’s voice gets a little squeaky on that, and then he closes his eyes like he’s seeking patience. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Arya is not going to get emotional about this, she’s _not_ , but she still has to look away. “Sansa and Margaery think it’s weird.”

“I don’t care what Sansa and Margery think,” Gendry says. “I’m not dating either of them.”

“But do you want to be?” The words come out before Arya can stop them and she ducks her head, hoping Gendry won’t see her face because she’s certain she looks like a silly girl right now. 

“No, of course not.” Gendry tries to tilt her face towards him and Arya resists. She hears Gendry sigh. “What made you think that?” 

Arya tries to find a way to avoid answering, but when she steps closer to Gendry, like she means to kiss him, he just gently keeps her at arms length and waits. 

“Sansa thinks it’s weird that I hadn’t seen you without your shirt on,” Arya finally admits. “And Dany says you’re supposed to have sex on the third date.”

“You didn’t even want to admit we were dating until like, date ten,” Gendry points out, which isn’t an answer.

Arya sticks her tongue out at him.

“I don’t want to date your sister,” Gendry says. “Or Margaery. Or Dany. But I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want, and you still seem pretty conflicted about dating at all, so…”

“Did you like that I brought you a plate?” Arya asks, and Gendry blinks several times like he’s not sure why she’s asking.

“Sure,” he says. “The food was good and I wouldn’t have gotten some of it otherwise.”

“And because I was waiting on you, like girls are supposed to,” Arya finishes.

“No.” Gendry shakes his head. “I don’t want you to … I don’t know what to tell you, Arya. I like you the way you are and I don’t care if you do whatever it is you think girls are supposed to do or not.” 

“But you have had sex with other girls?” Arya asks.

“Yes.” Gendry sighs again when she stares at him. “Two. And that doesn’t make any difference to anything.”

“I haven’t,” Arya says, half daring him to comment. She knows it’s weird, but he better not have an issue with it.

“Okay,” Gendry says. “Even more reason to make sure you’re comfortable first and not pressure you, then.” 

Arya takes a deep breath and considers him. A small part of her brain thinks it’s probably a bad idea to keep going, when she’s been drinking sangria and punch and shots and beers since about noon, but she’s not sure she’d be able to have this conversation sober. 

Nodding to herself, Arya stares at Gendry and strips off her shirt. 

Gendry’s jaw goes slack, and he stares a few seconds before jerking his head away. Arya thinks that probably _isn’t_ how it’s supposed to go but he has a pink flush on his cheeks so it can’t be an entirely bad reaction. 

“Or maybe it’s just me?” Arya is trying to sound like it doesn’t matter to her at all, but she’s pretty sure the way her voice wobbles makes it entirely clear that she does care. 

She starts wrestling out of her sports bra next, which is definitely not at all sexy like girls in movies who drop their pretty, delicate bras and make a guy stare.

In fact, she gets tangled up with it around her ears, and Gendry starts laughing until she stomps her foot and demands help. 

“Well, I ruined that,” Arya mumbles, looking at the floor after Gendry’s helped liberate her. From the corner of her eye, she can see him holding her bra gingerly, like he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with it. He’s still standing very close, and he feels very warm and Arya suddently feels utterly stupid. 

“Hey, no.” Gendry’s voice is gentle, even though he was just busting a gut laughing a few minutes ago. “Arya.”

He finally drops the bra and wraps one arm around her, solid and warm around her waist, the other hand titling her chin up despite her resistance. 

“I like you the way you are,” Gendry says firmly. “And I am very much attracted to you. I spend a lot of time trying not to scare you by having you realize how attracted to you I am.”

Arya looks at him blankly and Gendry sighs and pulls her tighter against him and — oh. Oh. Arya feels her cheeks turning red, like an absolute idiot. It’s not that she doesn’t know things about sex, but it’s all theoretical. And oversharing from Sansa, who as a lesbian, has definitely not brought up the issues of erections and … well. It’s never occurred to Arya that it might be something a guy would try to hide. 

“Me?” she manages to ask, which is a stupid and weak question, this is not her night, clearly.

She can feel Gendry’s laughter vibrating through her whole body, and it feels so good she barely even fights back when he picks her up off the ground and moves them both to his battered couch. 

He shifts her away a little when he sits down, though Arya is still perched on his lap and normally she’d complain but it’s also kind of nice?

“Definitely you,” Gendry says, still not looking anywhere below her chin. “But I don’t want to make you run, because you get kinda weird about this stuff.”

“Everyone’s weird about something,” Arya mutters, but somehow she finds herself spilling it all to Gendry. She’ll blame the alcohol if it comes back to bite her later, but she tells him about how her mother and sister have always said she’ll change her ways when she meets the right person and she won’t be so independent and wild. And how her mother thought she was a lesbian just because she doesn’t want to cater to some guys whims and Aunt Lysa always assumed Arya only pretended to be interested in sports and hunting and outdoor things so she could talk to boys and then warned her not to get too good at anything because men don’t like being shown up. And how everyone’s looking at her like she’s going to get all swoony and delicate just because she’s dating Gendry and like she isn’t herself anymore.

“And I’m not going to change,” Arya tells him finally. “I’m not going to stop doing the things I like or pretend I’m not better than you at lots of them or pretend to care about things I don’t. Or follow you around and bat my eyes and wait on you. I’d rather be single forever.”

“Good,” Gendry says. “I don’t want that — I like you and I don’t care if you’re better at some things than I am —”

“Lots of things,” Arya points out.

“ _Some_ things,” Gendry says. “I don’t expect you to be super into the stuff I like, though it is nice if you listen to me talk about it sometimes. And I like the way you act, even when you’re bratty.”

“I’m not bratty.” Arya says.

“Sometimes you are.” Gendry grins. “It’s kinda cute.” Arya scowls and Gendry laughs again. 

“Although,” he says, his voice turning challenging in a way that makes Arya’s stomach lurch. “I bet I can make you swoon.”

“Cannot,” Arya starts, but then Gendry’s kissing her and his hands are warm and big and with her shirt gone she can feel the way his calluses pull at her skin and it makes her shiver. Gendry always feels a little overwhelming, because he’s so much bigger than she is, but this is even more so and okay.

Maybe a _little_ swooning isn’t so bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *taps mic* uh, so is this thing on?
> 
> So, it's been a year, am I right? I've been trying to catch up with myself with this fic but I'm finally admitting it isn't going to happen. There's a good handful of chapters written, and then we're gonna have a couple time jumps to get to 'current' time for me writing, at least, and then I'm calling it good. Anything I really wanted to include should hold. 
> 
> And I know everyone loves them but there may be less of the festivals for a bit. They're fun but also very hard to write and plan, so I'm going to see what I get to and what inspires me. They won't go away entirely but there may not be the big juicy chapters. If only so I have time to write other fic I want to work on as well. 
> 
> Hope all of you survived 2020 reasonably okay and that 2021 looks better for all.
> 
> Thanks as always to my stellar beta, ElizaDunc, for wrestling with my nonsense.


	106. A Morning Star Rises And Sings To The Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talisa has a baby. Catelyn has opinions. Sansa has feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ElizaDunc for beta-ing!

Sansa thinks she might have a heart attack when her mother’s phone finally rings.

They’ve all returned to the Stark house, except Arya, who had followed Gendry off in a huff, and Rickon who’s retreated to his studio. Surprisingly, with Shireen in tow. Sansa does not know what her friend will make of her littlest brother’s gross studio above Benjen’s garage.

But there’s been no news, even after the fireworks, and Sansa has finally started to fall asleep on the sofa. Bran is nodding off on a chair, Jon is absently shuffling and re-shuffling a deck of cards, and Grandfather Hoster is in the guest bedroom snoozing. Benjen, Edmure, and her father have been quietly chatting for hours. Brynden is either reading a book or sleeping — Sansa can’t quite tell — and even Lysa has shown up with a sulky Robin and amused Uncle Jon in tow. 

Her mother has been seated bolt upright, staring at the phone. She’s still doing that when it rings, and she jumps before fumbling for it and answering.

“Put it on speaker,” Jon says, before Cat can even say hello.

“Robb?” Cat asks, her voice strangled.

“She had the baby!” Robb’s voice is tinny as it comes through the speaker. "There's a baby!"

“That’s wonderful,” Cat says. “Is she okay?”

“She had the baby!” Robb shouts again. “Talisa had the baby!”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Cat asks, and Sansa feels like rolling her eyes a little.

“It’s a baby!” Robb sounds harried. “Talisa had the baby!”

And then he hangs up.

Everyone stares at the phone for a few minutes. 

“Well, that was informative,” Benjen says dryly.

“It’s Robb,” Jon says. And maybe it’s because it’s four am, but Sansa starts giggling and can’t stop. That sets off Jon and then Benjen and Edmure and Ned, all of them laughing while Cat purses her lips and sighs. 

“I’m sure everyone is fine,” Sansa manages to get out, eventually, because her mother still looks tense and worried.

She doesn’t fight it when Cat insists on everyone piling into cars and heading to the hospital, although Sansa isn’t entirely sure Talisa is going to want to see an entire horde of Starks and Tullys so soon after pushing a human out of her body. 

Rickon grumbles something into his phone and hands it off to Shireen, who squeals in delight when Sansa tells her what’s going on. Arya sounds almost as exhausted and makes Sansa go into an empty room and promise five times not to say anything about where Arya is before she agrees to go with them.

Sansa can’t help smirking when Arya leaves the run-down apartment building, wearing a tee shirt that’s definitely too big to belong to her as a makeshift dress. 

“I said don’t tell anyway,” Arya says as she sees Bran and Jon in the back of the car. 

“Siblings don’t count,” Bran reminds her. Arya huffs out a sigh as Jon reaches over the passenger headrest to ruffle her hair. 

“Nice dress,” Sansa tells her.

“I hate you all,” Arya mutters. 

“You love us,” Bran says. “Don’t lie.”

Arya keeps grumbling, but Sansa ignores it and keeps driving. At some point Arya yanks the CD binder out from under the seats and puts Smashing Pumpkins in, which is actually useful in keeping Sansa awake during the two hour trip to the nearest hospital with a maternity ward.

It’s almost six thirty when they get there, so at least it isn’t totally inhuman hours for visiting. Robb looks like he’s been run over by a truck and hit on the head with a large brick when they get there.

“I have a baby,” he greets Sansa, when they find their way to the waiting room.

“Congratulations.” Sansa hugs him longer than is probably necessary, and Robb clings to her the way they used to sometimes as kids, like it was just the two of them against the world.

“No shit,” Arya says, breaking the mood. Robb beams down at her. 

“You’re an aunt!” he tells her, and Arya rolls her eyes. 

“Have you warned Talisa?” Jon asks. Robb looks at them all blankly.

“We’re just car number one,” Sansa explains gently. “Everyone’s on their way.”

Robb pales, and without another word, pushes the buzzer and hurries back through the double doors. A nurse appears a few moments later, scowling at the lot of them.

“Visiting hours don’t start until seven,” she says. 

That information, even repeated by the nurse, who grows angrier when the rest of the family appears, does not deter Catelyn. Sansa’s spent better half hours than the one sitting in a cramped waiting room. Especially since her mother only gets more nervous as Robb doesn’t re-appear.

“What if somethings wrong?” she frets. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bran says. 

“He didn’t even say the gender of the baby,” Catelyn moans. “What if they took it away and he doesn’t know, because of an emergency?”

“I think he just doesn’t care,” Arya says. 

Catelyn knocks on the door again, and tries to get the nurse to at least just let them go to the nursery and get a look at the baby.

“There’s no nursery,” the nurse says shortly. “This is a baby friendly hospital. All babies stay with their mother.”

Catelyn sits down in a snit, mumbling about how are the parents supposed to get any sleep and what if they do something wrong. Ned pats her hand and tells her it’s fine, things are just different now. Grandfather Hoster starts musing about how he wasn’t even allowed in the delivery room when his children were born, and he was fine with that. 

“Ned fainted when Robb was born,” Benjen offers, and Rickon, who’s shown up in pajamas, starts laughing. 

“Sansa took two days to arrive,” Edmure remembers. “He wouldn’t leave the room the entire time. Then when Cat was in labor with Arya, he went to get a sandwich and came back twenty minutes later and missed the entire thing.”

Ned scowls at them.

“I was there for Bran,” he says. “At least he only took a day.”

“Then he did it again with Rickon,” Cat says, looking amused. 

“Some of them were slow,” Ned defends himself. “How was I supposed to know?”

“A sandwich, Dad?” Rickon asks. “Really?”

“I got one for your mother too,” Ned says. 

“Turkey on rye,” Cat remembers. “I was so happy to be able to eat deli meat again.”

The nurse comes out shortly after and glares at the group. 

“Four at a time,” she tells Robb, who is shuffling behind her. “No more.”

Sansa melts a little when Robb gestures for her to join their parents and grandfather. When they reach the room, it looks surprisingly non-hospital like. There’s a nice bed and a dresser kind of deal and a sofa. And a little bassinet. 

It takes a lot of willpower not to rush over there immediately, following her mother, but Sansa makes herself approach Talisa first. She looks exhausted, but happy. 

“How are you feeling?” Sansa asks, bending down to hug her friend. 

“Sore,” Talisa says. “Exhausted.” 

“She did great,” Robb says. 

Cat clears her throat. “And the baby ….?”

“She’s perfect,” Talisa says softly. Cat littles out a happy little gasp.

“A baby girl,” she cooes at the bassinet. “How precious, you are, what a pretty little girl.”

Talisa sighs but looks too tired to argue gender norms. They all take turns holding the baby, and Sansa smiles down at the little bundle. 

“You’re so lucky,” she tells the newborn. “You’ve got the best mom and dad here for you and you’ll have lots of aunties and uncles and someday cousins to play with, and you’re going to be so happy.”

“Do you have a name yet?” Ned asks, as the baby starts to fuss and is passed back to Talisa. 

“We decided to name her Minisa,” Robb says softly, looking at their grandfather. “After grandmother. And her middle name is Yesenia, after Talisa’s mother.”

Grandfather Hoster clears his throat, and his eyes look suspiciously shiny as he tells Robb that their grandmother would be thrilled to have such a namesake. 

“Minisa Yesenia Stark,” Catelyn says thoughtfully. “A good name.”

“Maegyr,” Talisa corrects, from the bed. Everyone turns to look at her, though Ned and Hoster jerk their gaze immediately when they see Talisa has her hospital gown down and is feeding Minisa. “Minisa Yesenia Maegyr.” 

“Excuse me?” Catelyn asks. 

“She grew in my body, she’s getting my last name,” Talisa says. 

“Plus, Talisa doesn’t have any siblings,” Robb interjects. “Or cousins. There will be lots of chances for the Stark name to be passed down, but she’s the only one who can do it for her family.”

Catelyn still looks like she’s going to object, and Ned wisely suggests they all go and let everyone else have a turn. 

Sansa tunes out her mother’s grumbling as they wait in the waiting room and everyone else takes a turn going back. Even Arya and Rickon are all smiles when they come back, marveling at the cuteness of their new niece. Robin looks less thrilled, when it’s his turn, and Edmure just looks a bit wistful. 

Lysa joins Catelyn in grumbling about the baby’s last name. 

“I mean, the Tully name is dying out, if Edmure doesn’t marry,” she says, shooting Edmure a sour look. “You don’t see any of us taking our children’s name away from their fathers.”

“It’s a name,” Arya says. “And she’s right, she did give birth to the baby, so why shouldn’t it have her name?” 

“Well, they aren’t married, so I suppose,” Cat says, with a sigh.

“Even if they were,” Arya says. “She’s got just as much right to name him as Robb.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ned says firmly. “She’s still our granddaughter, and she’s lovely.” That, at least, everyone can agree on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, 2021. It's certainly started off interesting.
> 
> Robb's phone call is brought to you courtesy of my father, who apparently did that to my grandparents when I was born. In his defense, I was six weeks early and nobody expected me to be there so soon. They also thought I was going to be a boy, and the nurse was very cranky about me not having a name, so finally my father read random names out of a baby book until my mother found one that didn't remind her of someone she hated in school and went with it. My parents are super organized, clearly.
> 
> Baby friendly hospitals are a thing. I personally am suspicious of the concept because I think I'd want to SLEEP after pushing a human out of my body and get a last bit of rest before being responsible for it. But I don't have kids, so what do I know? 
> 
> Ned's sandwich story is one a co-worker told me about her father. She's one of four, and he did the sandwich thing twice! Oops. Cat's sandwich memory is also inspired by my mother, who when asked about my birth, will start with the butterscotch pudding she had afterwards, which was the best thing ever because she hadn't been allowed to eat for 3 days. (I do love my parents, I just find their lack fo sentimentality around this hilarious.)
> 
> I'm with Talisa on the name thing. Catelyn is going to have some issues.


	107. Parents Just Don't Understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn insists on Stark family dinner, even if the family is exhausted from the arrival of the latest not-Stark child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ElizaDunc for her beta skills!

“You know, we don’t have to have dinner,” Ned says, watching Catelyn bang around the kitchen. 

“Of course we do, it’s Sunday.” Cat finally locates the bowl she wants, and squeezes past him to get to the main refrigerator. 

“And we’re all tired and Robb and Talisa just had a baby,” Ned points out. Cat took a nap after they left the hospital, but only for a couple of hours. “You’ve been up all night.”

“We have five children, Eddard, I’ve been up all night before and still managed to get dinner on the table,” his wife tells him. 

Ned sighs. 

“Besides,” Cat continues. “Sam is planning on bringing Gilly this week and it’s bad enough the meal is so simple.” 

She shoves a bowl at him. 

“If you’re going to stand there, at least help. Mix this.”

Ned rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands before digging into the giant bowl of ground meat and seasonings. 

“I’m just saying, you put too much pressure on yourself,” he says. 

“If I don’t do it, who will?” Cat snaps. “Honestly, Ned, you’d just order pizza or cancel dinner entirely.” 

Ned doesn’t see what’s so wrong with either of those options, under the circumstances. The kids are all grown, an unhealthy meal won’t hurt them once in a while, and they certainly have lives and things to keep them busy if Sunday dinner doesn’t happen. 

Then again, Ned has always stepped back and let Cat take charge because she’s so insistent on having things done a certain way. Oh, he certainly agrees that having dinner as a family is important, but he doesn’t think it really matters if everything is made from scratch or the china matches and is seasonally appropriate and the table is laid out just so.

He knows Cat thinks it’s a slippery slope, that once they skip a week, everyone will start finding excuses and more reasons to cancel and they’ll become one of those families who only eat together on holidays. 

Ned doesn’t think that’s in any danger of happening, if only because Jon, Bran, Arya, and Rickon like Cat’s cooking too much. (Sansa and Robb do too, of course, but they’re much more competent cooks themselves.) 

Ned resolutely starts shaping meatballs and putting them on a sheet, ignoring it when Cat re-does half of them to be more perfectly round, after she puts the cheesecake in the oven. 

Ned has learned to pick his battles, and fighting over meatballs when they’re both exhausted isn’t a priority. 

Dinner, of course, goes wonderfully despite Cat’s constant apologies that the sauce is frozen — “But she still made it herself,” Ned interjects. “Just not tonight.” — and the salad is a perfect light compliment to the spaghetti and meatballs and fresh focaccia bread.

Cat’s fretting about only having one dessert is needless too, because Gilly nervously presents her with a plum pie when she and Sam arrive. 

Gilly is a nice girl, and Ned can instantly see that she’s a good match for Sam. They’re both shy and sweet, looking like they still can’t quite believe they’re welcome. Gilly is soft-spoken but polite and compliments Cat’s cooking and the table setting in a way that makes Cat blush a little and flutter her hands in the way Ned knows means she’s genuinely flattered. 

It’s also a quiet dinner — the kids are mostly half asleep and Brynden and Hoster have both declined in favor of heading home to get more rest. Edmure and Benjen have bowed out too, though Ned’s pretty sure Edmure is drinking at Littlefinger’s and wallowing in his own self-pity at his failed relationships, while Benjen is probably out at his cabin enjoying the quiet. He never has been able to handle big gatherings for long; between the festival and everything with Robb and Talisa, Ned’s brother has probably reached his limit for human interaction, and then some. 

Sansa and Gilly chat like old friends, which doesn’t surprise Ned. His oldest daughter has always had a large social circle and seems to collect people wherever she goes. Though Ned definitely prefers the group of women Sansa has cultivated now — unique, smart, and sometimes a bit odd — to some of the friends she’d had in high school. They were teenagers, but some of them were gossipy and cruel and their influence definitely fed into the animosity Sansa and Arya had as teens.

Thankfully, Ned’s daughters have grown out of fighting, and even Arya seems to be delighted by Gilly. That’s a much bigger surprise, and Ned is thrilled to see his youngest daughter having female friends, for once. Oh, he’s never worried about Arya hanging around with boys, not really, because she’d fight tooth and nail if any of them tried anything, but he thinks it must have been lonely for her sometimes. Not that she’d ever admit it. 

Rickon is checked out and distant, and Bran is polite but off in his own head somewhere, as usual. Ned’s trying to stop worrying about it. They’re both gainfully employed adults, living on their own, and Rickon hasn’t had any trouble with the law in a few years. He doesn’t have to understand his sons to love them.

Though he still doesn’t understand, sometimes, how they’re not more like Robb and Jon, who open up to Ned and seem to have a good, solid grasp on what they want out of life.

Jon has thankfully arrived to dinner without Ygritte this week. Ned thinks Cat’s tired enough that she might say something she’d truly regret later, and he’s glad there’s not an opportunity for that to happen.

For all her crassness and loud energy, Ned thinks Ygritte is good for Jon. Oh, he’d prefer it if she were more respectful and tried to fit in a little more, but she brings Jon out of his shell. Ned’s never seen him smile and laugh so much as he has lately, even when he’s trying to look exasperated by Ygritte’s behavior. 

No, Ned’s children aren’t doing so bad for themselves, romantically. Certainly it’s a huge change from just last fall, when they were all single and he and Cat were worrying they’d all be alone forever. 

Ned wishes his wife shared his opinion. 

“I don’t see why our children can’t date someone like Gilly,” Cat says, after they’ve left the kids to clean up and headed up to bed. “She’s lovely.”

“They’re not doing so bad,” Ned says. “You like Margaery.”

“Oh, she’s nice enough,” Cat agrees. “But she can be a little full of herself and I’m not sure she’s a good influence on Sansa sometimes.”

Ned is fairly certain the two girls are a bad influence on each other, if anything, but he’s not going to begrudge his daughter a satisfying relationship. Even if he wishes he didn’t know quite so much about it. 

“And Gendry’s a good man,” Ned says. 

“He’s older than Arya,” Cat frowns. “And I doubt it will last, you know how she is.”

Ned isn’t so sure. Gendry looks at his wild daughter like she hung the moon. “She might surprise us.” 

“And Talisa … I just can’t believe my first grandchild isn’t a Stark,” Cat says. 

“It’s different now,” Ned says. The more he sees of Talisa, the more he likes her. She’s a smart woman, practical, ambitious. It’s a good match for Robb, even if they’re still working things out. Ned might have preferred they get married first, but he’s not at all displeased with the mother of his first grandchild. 

“Who will carry on the Stark name?” Cat asks, sounding truly distraught.

Ned tries not to roll his eyes. “We do have four other children,” he points out. 

“Two are girls,” Cat reminds him. “And can you see Arya having children?”

Ned can, actually, because while Cat sees Arya’s disdain of all things feminine, Ned sees her utter devotion to family. Even when she was mad at Sansa, she’d be the first to go after anyone who dared say a word about her big sister. Often with fists, rather than words, but still. She was defending her blood and Ned knows family means a lot more to Arya than people imagine. 

“I’m not sure how it works with lesbians,” Ned says, instead. “Sansa may keep her name.”

“Apparently a lot of them hyphenate,” Cat says, gesturing at the stack of books on her bedside table. She’s been reading a lot about lesbian history now that Sansa’s dating Margaery, though she still seems to wonder at the fact that it’s Sansa’s who is gay and not Arya. 

“Well, that’s something.” Ned says. He can’t see the Tyrells being overly thrilled with the idea, but Stark-Tyrell has a nice ring to it. Not that Sansa and Margaery are at that point yet, and for all he knows, they could break up. 

“And I don’t think Arya will ever give up being a Stark,” Ned continues. “No matter what happens.” Cat sniffs a little. “If she can find a husband who would put up with that.”

“We also have Rickon,” Ned says. He hesitates. “And Bran.”

“I highly doubt any of Rickon’s girls would be mother material,” Cat says. “He didn’t even have us meet the last one.”

“I think they’re still dating,” Ned says, trying to recall Sansa’s comments about Rickon’s mysterious girlfriend. 

Cat laughs. “Well that certainly would be a record for him.” 

“We should be open-minded,” Ned says, though even he can tell it lacks conviction. Rickon’s track record with dating is less than stellar. 

“And Bran …” Cat sighs. They haven’t discussed Bran very much. Ned knows he should, theoretically, be able to have children. At least, that’s what the doctors assured them after the accident. But beyond that and the same bird and bees talk they gave all the other children, Ned’s let Bran have that conversation with his doctors and therapists. He doesn’t want to pry into a very private issue and Bran hasn’t shown a lot of romantic interest in people regardless. Ned isn’t even sure Bran feels romantic interest at all. 

“Bran’s a good boy,” Ned says. “Whatever happens with his life.”

“Well,” Cat says. “I just hope we get a Stark grandchild someday.” 

“We will,” Ned says. After all, with five kids, surely the odds are in their favor. Six, even though he knows Jon’s children won’t be named Stark and Cat won’t consider them the same way. “I’m sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cat is an interesting character. I do like her, but she strikes me as a woman who is very set in her ways of How Things Are Done and not willing to bend. In a modern AU, I'm definitely bringing some strong TV Housewife Energy — I'm sure Ned could help more, but Cat also strikes me as one of those women who will reject help that isn't exactly her way. Some of her children (Sansa, sometimes Robb) learned to do things as she wants, but the rest were more rebellious, I think. 
> 
> Anyway, she's trying but she is struggling a lot with changes to her plan and vision of the future.


	108. Watch My Corn Pop Up In Rows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a festival! Of grain and grain-like things!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ElizaDunc for her edits and infinite patience with my ghosting and sudden writing dumps.
> 
> Thanks to Tim McGraw for the song lyrics that work for a harvest title.
> 
> Thanks to all of you for continuing to read even when updates are spotty! 
> 
> No fancy links with this festival update at the bottom — I'm a bit tapped out right now — but everything is google-able and real.

“Careful now,” Shireen tells the children in front of her. “The wax is very hot, so you don’t want to let it get on your hands.”

She looks at one of the littlest children there, a girl who will likely be in Shireen’s class next year. “Do you have a grown up with you, sweetling?”

The girl shrugs a little and Shireen sighs and focuses a little more closely on her. Making dip candles is a fun project, but during planning, they definitely hadn’t accounted for the number of people who would drop their children off at the school and vanish into the rest of the festival. 

The Festival of Grain, they’re calling it, mostly because there’s already a Harvest Festival and Thanksgiving on the books so they’re running out of names. It also seems to be turning into a bit of a heritage festival theme, mostly capitalizing on the interest from the 4th of July. So wax candles seemed like a good fit. 

Shireen gives Tormund a gesture to monitor and steps around to help the girl tie her wick around a pencil and shows her how to slowly dip it in the wax and wait a bit between colors.

They also seem to have underestimated the interest, and there’s a crowd around each container of wax. Tormund’s booming voice reminds everyone to step back and let other people have a turn while their wax cools. 

The kids listen. The adults who’ve stopped by are not as obedient, and Shireen has to repeatedly ask some of them to move aside so the children waiting behind them can get through.

She doesn’t mind adults coming to craft but honestly, it shouldn’t be difficult to let the kids take priority.

Or to stay and watch your children. Shireen helps another couple of kids get started and replenishes some of the wax and then hears a familiar voice. “Hi Ms. Baratheon!” Tommen is smiling, and Shireen is so happy to see how he’s continued to come out of his shell. She looks around for Jaime, but instead sees Tyrion Lannister and his new wife.

“This is my Aunt Tysha,” Tommen says proudly. He’s holding a little design made of wheat. “She taught us to make these!” 

Tysha smiles and ducks her head a little. Shireen wishes she knew the woman better — she should fix that — but she’s clearly already impressed the Baratheon kids. Myrcella has a more elaborate craft in her hands, and she’s looking over the candle setup with more interest than Shireen would expect. 

Tysha helps Tommen get started with a candle while Tyrion looks around with a vague air of distaste. 

“It’s very loud,” he comments, and Shireen laughs. 

“I’m used to it,” she says, but she supposes the shouts of excited kids echoing off the gym walls might be a bit much for anyone not used to it.

“I’m so glad Val offered one of her cousins to help out,” Tysha says, looking around. “I haven’t gotten to see any of these festivals so far.” 

She ties her own candle wick off and pokes Tyrion until he grabs one as well, with an exaggerated sigh. 

Shireen watches them — Tommen excited, Myrcella careful, Tyrion grudging and Tysha patiently enthusiastic. Tyrion might complain, but he stares at his wife with a besotted look anytime she isn’t paying attention. It’s definitely a trait the Lannister brothers have in common, because she’s seen that look before. 

“You know,” Shireen says, when the kids come back. “You can call me by my first name when you’re not at school.”

Tommen’s eyes get big. “But you’re a teacher!” 

“I’m also your cousin,” Shireen reminds him. Not that they ever saw each other when Robert was alive — he and Stannis had a grudge that went back years. And Shireen knows Cersei never liked her, acting like Shireen’s scars might be catching. 

“Uncle Jaime says we have to respect adults,” Myrcella says with a heavy sigh. 

“Where is Uncle Jaime?” Shireen asks, though she’s pretty sure she knows. 

“With Ms. Brienne,” Tommen says. “Do you think she’ll be my aunt someday?”

Tyrion nearly chokes with laughter. “Only if Uncle Jaime stops being an idiot.”

“This is nice,” Jaime says, looking at Brienne over the rim of his cup filled with Rodrik Cassel’s homebrewed beer. 

“It’s an interesting festival,” Brienne agrees. 

“I meant just having the two of us,” Jaime says. 

“Oh.” Brienne’s cheeks turn pink and Jaime doesn't know if he wants to laugh or sigh. They’ve gone to dinner and lunch a few times, but she still seems surprised every time Jaime calls. Tyrion says Jaime should just kiss her already, to make his position clear but Jaime thinks that might send her fleeing. 

“I mean, I love my niblings,” Jaime says. “But I like not getting interrupted every ten seconds.”

He hesitates before reaching out, but then wraps an arm around Brienne’s waist and tugs her closer. She turns even more red, but she relaxes after a couple of seconds and doesn’t push Jaime away. 

“I’m not that interesting,” Brienne mumbles, after they pick up fig and pepper bread from Renly. 

“I disagree,” Jaime says. 

“You are a most fascinating woman, I’m sure,” Oberyn Martell adds, handing them bowls of red beans and rice. Jaime glares at him. “I would love to hear how you keep those wonderful muscles.”

Brienne looks mortified. 

Jaime pulls her away, ignoring Martell’s continued commentary and asks Brienne about her plans for rescue dogs. It’s easier to get her talking about work, and frankly, her job is a lot more interesting than his. 

He ignores the smug look Sansa gives him when they pass her at Cregan’s and hurries Brienne along. Tyrion and Tysha can only watch the kids for so long, and Jaime isn’t about to let Brienne’s friends intrude on the time they have.

“So cute,” Sansa sighs, handing out another piece of rosemary garlic bread and watching Brienne and Jaime walk towards the square. 

Robb ignores her, checking on Minisa, who is snuggled up to his chest in a bright teal batik wrap. Sansa is pretty sure it’s meant for Talisa, but Robb has proudly taken to wearing his daughter as much as he can.

Sansa can’t blame him. Mini is darling, and Sansa would happily spend hours cuddling the infant and kissing her fat little cheeks. 

“That’s a girl,” Robb says, as Mini smacks her lips and wiggles a little. “You’re doing so good!” 

“How’s Talisa?” Sansa asks, reaching over to stroke Mini’s cheek. Babies are so soft, it’s amazing. 

“Tired,” Robb says. “I think she’s nervous about starting school.” 

Sansa can believe it. She’d be nervous about something like medical school too, even without a new baby. 

“She’s had the bassinet in her room,’ Robb says. “But it’s about time we switch her to mine, so Talisa can get sleep at night.” 

“That’s why you look so well rested,” Sansa says. “I wondered.”

Robb makes a sour face. 

“I wonder when people are going to realize you have her here?” Sansa wonders. “You’re going to get mobbed.”

She waves at Arya, who’s across the street with Gendry. Holding hands, unbelievably enough, and not letting go when Arya sees someone looking. “She’s gloating,” Arya mutters, as her sister waves cheerily.

“She’s not gloating,” Gendry says, dropping her hand to pick up bowls of chili and cornbread. “You’re paranoid.”

“It’s Sansa, of course she’s gloating.” Arya heads towards the fount, determinedly not stopping. “And she’s going to try to drag everyone to see Robb’s baby and how great babies are.”

“I thought you liked Minisa?” Gendry sounds genuinely confused, and Arya is reminded that he doesn’t know his half-siblings. 

“I do, she’s my niece,” Arya says. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to start talking baby talk and trying to have one of my own.”

Gendry looks gratifyingly alarmed at the thought. 

“See?” Arya says, picking up some blackberry glazed salmon from the waiter at Tarly’s. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Babies might be nice someday,” Gendry says slowly, but his voice is kind of weird. “Theoretically. In the future. Distantly. And only if you know, both people wanted them.”

Doran Martell laughs openly at that, as he hands them bowls of rice and beans. Different ones than Oberyn had been handing out, and Doran calls it rice and peas, even though Arya doesn’t see any peas. 

Arya isn’t sure about the whole baby thing, definitely not about the actual giving birth part which sounds terrifying, but also about the whole taking care of them thing. Her mother may love cooking three meals a day and doing crafts and all the other shit they did when they were little, but Arya thinks it sounds kind of like a nightmare. 

“It seems like a lot of work,” is all she says though. 

Gendry shrugs, and Arya spots Talisa a way up the street with Daenerys and Missandei. At least her brother’s doing some of the work. More than their father did, probably. That seems more fair, in Arya’s opinion. 

“Okay, I have fifteen more minutes,” Talisa says, after she’s shoved a pile of books at the nearest librarian. The book harvest is a great idea, and she’s so glad that she’ll never need the MCAT study guides again. “Then my boobs are gonna start leaking.”

Daenerys wrinkles her nose. “Why can’t we be like reptiles? They’re all ready to hunt when they’re born.”

“Our overdeveloped cranium and ability to use tools and think critically,” Talisa says, picking up a bowl of chilled berry soup from the Citadel. 

“Rude,” Missy says. “How dare evolution.” 

They cross the street to get some of Marbrand’s sourdough bread, which Talisa tears into viciously. She’s so hungry all the time lately. 

“At least Robb’s doing his part,” Daenerys says, dragging them back across again to get a blackberry latte. 

“God I’ve missed caffeine.” Talisa inhales the fumes before sipping hers happily. 

“It’s hard to believe she’s almost a month old,” Daenerys says. Talisa had been surprised when Daenerys, Missandei, Shireen, Ygritte, and Brienne had shown up a few days after Minisa’s birth, but delighted. Brienne had declined to hold the baby, looking absolutely terrified, but they’d all been so kind to check in on her. Plus, while everyone else was passing Minisa around so Talisa could shower, Brienne had gone into the kitchen and cooked up a pasta dinner with enough leftovers for several days. Talisa had actually cried in relief. 

“I know. She’s growing so quick.”

“And she’s cute as a button,” Missy adds. 

“Robb makes good babies,” Talisa admits.

Ellaria pauses in the middle of handing them bowls of rice and lentils to squeal and ask about seeing the baby. 

“She’s with Robb today,” Talisa says. “But I’ll tell him.” 

As they walk back toward Cregan’s, Talisa gives Daenerys a sly look. “I bet Drogo would make good babies.”

“Well, making them would be fun, at least,” Daenerys says. “But he’s kind of … intense.”

Talisa shrugs. “I’d climb him like a tree.”

“Don’t let Robb hear you say that,” Missy says. “He’ll be heartbroken.”

“He’ll live,” Talisa says. Though she can’t help noticing the way Robb’s smile grows brighter as they reach the store and she takes Minisa off to one side to feed her. Robb’s affection only seems to be growing as they spend more time together, and Talisa can’t help wondering if maybe she’s judged him too harshly.

Then again, that could just be the hormones speaking. She watches as Sansa greets Margaery with a sappy smile and big kiss. Babies tend to bring that out in people. 

“I love babies,” Sansa says. 

Margaery raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to get me to knock you up?”

The Smalljon, who is handing out cups of home brewed stout, looks between them with raised eyebrows.

“Maybe not quite yet,” Sansa allows. “One of us should get married first, or mom will have kittens.” 

“I mean, I’m happy to try,” Margaery says, as they pick up some frybread from Val. “But I’m not sure how well that’s gonna work.”

“There’s always parthenogenesis,” Val offers. “Sprouting new humans from your forehead.”

Sansa’s nose wrinkles. 

“We’d make cute babies,” Margaery decides. They walk a bit more, grabbing some kettle corn from Varys. 

“And we both have brothers who could be sperm donors,” Sansa supplies. Not that she’s thought about it. Too much. Really. 

Loras, who is handing out cups of blackberry tea, spills one over the counter. 

“Oh, and I could be a surrogate for Renly and Loras,” Margaery says, smirking at her brother. 

Loras looks panicked. 

“Did I miss something?” He asks.

“Babies are cute,” Sansa informs him. She isn’t sure she can really picture Renly and Loras with an infant, but she doesn’t know them that well so perhaps she’s wrong. 

“And messy, and loud,” Loras says. Margaery tugs on one of his curls. 

“You know grandmother wants great-grandchildren,” she says.

“And that’s why she has Willas and Garlan,” Loras replies. “And you.” 

“But your babies would be so cute!” Margaery’s definitely just messing with him now. “And I’m not having a baby with _my sister_ ,” Loras says. Margaery rolls her eyes.

“Of course not,” she says. “We’d use Renly’s sperm and my egg. You’d have a baby with Sansa.” 

Loras eyes Sansa warily, like she’s going to tackle him and start making demands.

“They’d be very cute babies,” she promises. Then she catches sight of Jaime and Brienne across the street. “Just a minute, I have an idea.”

Brienne’s protests go unheard as Sansa drags her and Jaime into Littlefingers, Margaery following behind with an entirely too suspicious grin. 

“So,” Sansa says brightly, after Brienne has been goaded into taking one of the blackberry jello shots. “We were talking about who’d have the cutest babies.”

Half of Jaime’s caramel corn shot comes shooting out of his nose as he chokes. Brienne thumps him on the back, glaring at her friends.

“Yours would be very tall,” Margaery says solemnly, before swallowing something called an atomic plum.

“Who’s tall?” Bronn asks, wiping up the bar with a sigh.

“Brienne and Jaime’s babies,” Sansa says. 

“Hypothetical babies,” Brienne interjects. She knows she’s turning red, but she does not need this kind of rumor going around. 

“And blond,” Bronn says, looking at both of them. “Very blond.”

“Hypothetically,” Sansa says, grinning. 

“Yours would be quite cute,” Bronn says, leering at Sansa and Margaery. “Happy to help out if you need a hand.”

“I think we’ll have it covered,” Margaery says, frowning at him. 

“Just offering.” Bronn saunters off. Jaime finally stops coughing and stares at Brienne. 

She wonders if he’s now thinking about it. Brienne’s never bothered to think about having children, but she imagines they’d be cursed to be tall and awkward and ugly, just like her. 

“And strong,” Jaime says, still staring. “Tall and strong.”

Sansa giggles. Margaery sighs happily. Brienne braces herself for the punchline, but none comes and Jaime reaches over to grab her hand. 

“Though I think we’re a ways off from that,” Jaime says. He rubs his thumb along the side of Brienne’s hand and she stares down at it. Bronn slides more drinks their way and Brienne decides maybe drinking is a good idea right now. Maybe things will make more sense then. 

“Now, Arya and Gendry,” Sansa says thoughtfully. “Would their babies be short or tall or would it just even out?”

Arya stares in front of her with increasing horror. Gendry is hugging the Fat Walda’s waitress, who barely comes up to his shoulder, and dragging Arya forward and she’s pretty sure he’s not just really excited about mushroom barley soup. 

“Mom, this is Arya,” Gendry says. Arya tries to smile and holds out a hand, but Gendry’s mother ignores it and pulls her in for a hug. Arya is, of course, shorter, and gets her face smushed against the woman’s shoulder. Well, now she knows where Gendry got his hugging impulse. 

“It’s so good to meet you,” she says, introducing herself as Leora. “Gendry’s told me so much about you.”

“Um,” says Arya

Gendry ruffles her hair and laughs openly. Stupid. 

“Arya’s allergic to feelings,” he tells his mother. He doesn’t sound mad, though. 

“Well, you keep him in line,” Leora tells Arya as she hands them both some soup. “He needs it.”

“He does,” Arya agrees, elbowing Gendry in the side. Leora laughs, but Arya still can’t get out of there fast enough.

“What was that?” Arya hisses, after she accepts one of the cornflowers Ros is giving out and a (kind of gross) chia seed protein ball from Jaqho at Vaes Dothrak.

“I met your parents,” Gendry points out. He takes a blackberry pie bar from Gilly and then peers in the window at the vet. “What the hell is cat grass?”

Arya shrugs.

“I mean, I guess,” she says. 

“She likes you,” Gendry says. Arya grumbles, but then sees her sister and Brienne across the street and grabs Gendry’s hand to pull him toward an alley. “We have to escape,” she says. “Sansa’s crazy today.”

“You’re so sweet,” Sansa coos at Myrcella and Tommen. Myrcella looks offended, and Tommen looks confused, but accepts the way Sansa ruffles his hair. 

Jaime thinks they probably should have stopped her from having the second cup of Davos’ corn milk punch. There’s a lot of color in her cheeks and she’s definitely tipsy. 

Margaery is eating shrimp and grits from Tyene, who’d given a resigned sigh and admitted people seem to prefer food offerings to her samples of sex accessories. She smiles encouragingly at her girlfriend. 

Tyrion looks at them all with confusion, and then dismisses Joy from handing out rye bread and takes over. 

“Children are so great,” Sansa sighs. She turns on Tyrion and Tysha, who’s busy eating some Obara’s millet salad. “You two should have children!”

Tyrion pales. Tysha smiles. 

“I’m going to have a cousin?” Tommen asks.

“No,” Tyrion says.

“Not yet, anyway,” Tysha adds. She runs a hand over her stomach. “We did just get married.” 

Tommen nods seriously, sweet corn ice cream cone clutched in his hand. “Cousins would be nice,” he decides. 

“Uncle Jaime, Uncle Tyrion said you would go make corn dollies with us,” Myrcella says, turning to him. With a sigh, Jaime squeezes Brienne’s hand in farewell and lets his niece and nephew drag him off. Tyrion smirks and waves. At least he can grab some zucchini bread and a polenta bowl while he waits for the endless craft projects. And he won’t have to brave Sansa anymore, unlike Brienne. He sees Robb and the new baby as he goes past Evenfall’s, Robb barely avoiding dropping farro ragout on the infant’s head. 

Babies are cute, though, Jaime has to admit. 

“Sorry kiddo,” Robb says, wiping Minisa’s head off. Eating while wearing a baby is not as easy as he anticipated, even though she’s very calm. 

Talisa sips her blackberry punch (the non-alcoholic version) and watches them. Robb hopes she’s not going to hold it against him. 

“She’s good for you,” Talisa says.

“She’s good for everyone.” Robb sways gently on his feet. His daughter prefers it when she’s moving, it seems. 

“It’ll help with me being away,” Talisa says. She looks at Robb. “I’m glad you’re willing to take care of her.”

“She’s my daughter,” Robb points out. “Of course I will.”

“Still,” Talisa says. “I’m glad I don’t have to put off school.”

“Of course not,” Robb says. He wishes he could tell Talisa how proud he is of her, but he thinks she might take it the wrong way. She’s going to be a great doctor, and he’s glad his daughter will have a role model like that. Not that Robb thinks women who stay home aren’t great, but he knows Arya struggled sometimes, only seeing their mother and other moms who didn’t work until their children were older. 

He sees Jon and Ygritte grabbing some rice salad and waves. Ygritte waves back, then tugs Jon away before they can talk.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Ygritte tells Jon. 

“Um,” Jon says, as they head through the square. He drops a couple of dollars in the jar collecting money to restore the historic village in the gift. 

“No babies,” Ygritte says. “Not anytime soon.” 

They take cups of blackberry punch (with a kick) from the bank. Jon watches as the extremely tall man who owns the pizza place leans over to flirt with one of the Lannisters, who’s older than Jon’s parents. The woman preens and laughs, looking more like a teenager. 

It’s kind of nice to see old people acting like that. “I don’t want babies anytime soon?” 

“I mean, Robb’s is cute and all,” Ygritte says, around a mouthful of corn fritter. “But they’re a lot of work.”

“Trust me, I know.” Jon fails at avoiding Stannis’s efforts to make him take a weird little timer. Ygritte smirks at him.

“Not like that,” Jon says. “But I grew up with the Starks, I was seven when Bran was born and ten with Rickon. I’ve done plenty of babysitting.”

Ygritte laughs and takes some of the foraged tabouli from Meera Reed. “How many times did he lock you out of the house?”

“Just once,” Jon says, as they pick up beer bread from Frey Insurance. “It wasn’t nearly as bad as the kitchen fire or the broken bones.” 

It’s a long time before Ygritte stops laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frey's Insurance: beer bread  
> Reed's: Foraged amaranth tabouli  
> Stannis: brush timers  
> Crakehall & Marbrand: sourdough bread  
> Tyrell's: corn fritters  
> Lannister's: sparkling blackberry punch  
> Library: book harvest  
> Citadel Clinic: chilled berry soup  
> Frozen North: sweet corn ice cream  
> Wildling's: blackberry latte  
> Ellaria: mujadara  
> Martell Inn: rice and peas  
> Tarly's: blackberry glazed salmon  
> City Hall: chili and cornbread  
> Courthouse: blackberry punch  
> Sand Snakes: tomato rice salad  
> Pharmacy: zucchini bread  
> Syrio: vegetable polenta bowls  
> Martell: red beans and rice  
> Renly: fig and pepper bread  
> Cregan's: rosemary garlic bread  
> School: dip candles  
> Garden Center: home brewed ale  
> Daycare: corn dollies  
> Evenfall: farro and mushroom ragout  
> Hardware: Lammas frybread  
> Sewing: wheat weaving  
> Cassel's: home brewed beer  
> Dragon Egg: whole grain dog treats  
> Yarn shop: blackberry tea  
> Blushing Bloom: cornflowers  
> Vaes Dothrak: chia seed energy bites  
> Seven Sisters: blackberry pie bars  
> Starfish: cat grass seeds  
> Fat Walda's: mushroom barley soup  
> Weekly Spyder: kettle corn  
> Littlefinger's: blackberry bramble jello shot, caramel corn shot, atomic plum shot  
> Stolen Ink: facepaint, corn milk punch  
> Happy Ending: shrimp and grits  
> Between the Covers: rye bread with salami, cheese, mustard, etc.  
> Sunspear: garlic, millet and lemon salad with beets

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the fic is from Counting Crow's Omaha, because it just feels like small town Middle America. And because I love it so much I have that song lyric tattooed on my shoulder with a crow (and bestie has a matching crow). 
> 
> Unlike most of my work, this does not have a defined end date. It's not so much a linear plot as a feeling that you can immerse yourself in and enjoy the daily life in this verse. In the event that I decide to stop, I do promise to bring all storylines to a reasonable stopping point, so don't let the endless WIP-status scare you off.


End file.
